The Powers of Evil
by KCS
Summary: Hound of the Baskervilles AU. Watson stumbles upon the truth about Stapleton before he discovers Holmes on the moor. When the Doctor disappears, Holmes realizes he must act quickly against the powers of evil at work upon the moor.
1. There Is a Power

_**There Is A Power**_

**Disclaimer:** According to _Music97_, we no longer have to have disclaimers on our beloved Holmes and Watson! Hoorah! But in case Sir Henry, Stapleton, and that fearful Hound aren't covered, I don't own any of 'em.

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**A/N: For those of you who have not read the Hound of the Baskervilles, I would suggest doing so before reading this, or else you may not quite understand everything.

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I shut the heavy oaken door of my room behind me, troubled in mind and body over what had just occurred out on the moor. It had been over three weeks since I had come to Baskerville Hall as Sir Henry's bodyguard, and I had to admit that those weeks had done nothing but increase my dislike of the whole affair.

I was uneasy, knowing that Sir Henry and I were sitting in a castle steeped in a veritable ghostly history, which I knew that Sherlock Holmes merely discounted as legend. However, I am of a more romantic nature, as the detective has pointed out on numerous occasions, and more prone to take interest in such affairs.

To make matters worse, the American baronet is even more superstitious than I. And without the steadying influence of my dear friend around to curb my romantic streak, the mystery, gloom, and obvious danger surrounding us seemed almost oppressive at times.

This was one of those times. I had just had to apologize to Sir Henry for watching his secret liaison with Miss Beryl Stapleton – I had orders, and orders must be followed. Years of association with Sherlock Holmes has taught me that if nothing else.

But I still was rather embarrassed over doing so. And her brother's puzzling reaction to the whole affair was so drastic I was also embarrassed about having been witness to that as well.

And that was puzzling me very much indeed. There was no logical reason why Stapleton should have reacted in that violent manner. No reason whatsoever.

"_Facts, Watson. Reason backwards from effects to causes_," I could almost hear Sherlock Holmes saying in my head.

Reason backwards. Very well then.

Stapleton had said, to quote Sir Henry, "He _would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked?_"

A drastic and unnatural reaction. Then what could have caused it? I thought again of the explanations I had offered to Sir Henry, trying to comfort the crushed man.

Surely just the shadow of a legend haunting the Baskerville family would not be enough to cause such an – for lack of a better word – _explosion_ from the prospective brother-in-law?

"_The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child_."

I was startled that that particular quotation from Holmes should have come to my mind at this point. From the affair of Violet Hunter at the Copper Beeches, I remembered suddenly. Holmes had been on one of his lectures about studying familial tendencies.

He had also pointed out to me on numerous occasions regarding he and his brother Mycroft that most tendencies that were hereditary were inherited from the parents. In other words, the major character traits of families usually were similar.

Why then was Stapleton's disposition and his very attitude so very different from his sister's? He had said that Sir Henry's attentions to his sister were distasteful – but the woman herself had never said any such thing – in fact, she had readily agreed to meet Sir Henry. He had an abnormal amount of control over her for a mere brother.

And if, as I believe, I am any judge of women, the feelings the baronet has for her are not all one-sided. Stapleton does not strike me as being the over-protective type; his very nature is easy-going and calm. Why then should he suddenly explode over a harmless romantic meeting?

Sir Henry was puzzled too, but I knew his thoughts to be on why Stapleton did not approve of him personally. My thoughts were more vague, but there was something about the man that very seriously struck a jarring chord within me. My instincts were at work.

Or perhaps living with the world's most famous detective has simply made me overly suspicious of everyone.

I had three hours before luncheon, and Sir Henry was busy in that meeting with the architects. I decided that a few discreet inquiries in town would not be amiss.

I wanted to check on a few things Stapleton had told me, to see if there were possibly something in his background that he were afraid of Sir Henry knowing. That might explain the reaction – merely panic to having an outsider learn a dreaded family secret if a marriage were discussed.

I stopped by the drawing room and told the baronet that I was going out but would be back before lunch, cautioning him to not go anywhere without me. This he readily promised.

"I mean it, Sir Henry," I said earnestly, "Holmes gave me orders and I must carry them out. No matter what happens, you cannot budge from the Hall. Will you give me your word, no more such escapades as of this morning?"

"I promise, Watson," he said. I noticed his pronounced American accent had begun to soften even in the short time we had been there on the moor. "I have loads of this stuff to go over with all these fellows, anyhow. You'll be back for lunch?"

"I shall. I will be back in two hours, three at the most."

Having obtained the stubborn man's word that he would not move from the Hall, I set off toward the town.

I arrived at the little post office about twenty minutes later, and I spent the better part of an hour composing and sending messages to the appropriate party.

I felt a little guilty about not informing Holmes of my intentions and line of inquiries, but I had no wish to receive yet another dressing-down for my ridiculously romantic suspicions. I doubted whether I was right; but if I was, there would be time enough to inform the man.

I had a friend at a London library whom I knew would be glad to do me a favor in return for several I had extended him in the past, and it was to him that I sent a lengthy message. I had no doubt I would receive the reply later that evening, and I arranged for the message to be sent to the Hall as soon as it arrived.

Until then I could not, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "_make bricks without clay._" I needed data, and it would be quite some time before I got it. I could only possess my soul in patience and wait.

How I wished to heaven that Holmes's reassuring presence were with me.

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**_To be continued...please review!_**


	2. A Deep, Organizing Power

_**A Deep, Organizing Power**_

**Disclaimer** - I own nothing but the AU bits.

– _cowers as Sir Arthur rolls in grave_ –

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**A/N: By the way, can anyone identify where I'm getting the chapter titles from?**

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I made it back to Baskerville Hall far before luncheon was ready, and so Sir Henry and I engaged in a friendly game of billiards.

Proof of how distracted I was, trying to think my way through the obvious feeling of danger I had, added onto that the strange events of the morning, was evidenced in the fact that the American bested me two games out of three.

"You all right, Watson?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as I conceded the third game.

"Just a little preoccupied, Sir Henry," I replied, "I had hoped by this time Holmes would have been able to break away from London and come down here. It's a heavy load to carry, being his emissary, you know."

"I can't imagine," the man said honestly as we made our way to the dining room, "But we've been here for three weeks now, and nothing even suspicious has happened, except for Barrymore's behavior, and we cleared that up last night."

Possibly another reason why I was so on edge – I could not forget that the man I saw on the Tor was not the convict; he was much too tall. Barrymore's story did not explain his existence. There were too, too many mysterious factors in this business, and I knew I was out of my depth.

I said a silent prayer for Holmes to finish up whatever was keeping him in London and get down to us before something happened that I was either too powerless to prevent or too absolutely exhausted to see coming.

"D'you really think there's even anything in the legend, Doctor?" Baskerville asked me as we sat down to the meal, "since nothing has even happened in three weeks?"

"Holmes told me there was danger, Sir Henry. That is enough to tell me there is definitely something wrong," I replied.

My mind went back to that morning on the station platform, just before I joined Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry in the compartment. Holmes had pulled me off to the side, and his grip on my shoulder was so intense it was almost painful.

_"This is a nasty, dangerous business, Watson," he had said intensely, "Do please take no chances. Our opponent is as dangerous as they come – please, please take care."_

_I was surprised by his unusually emotive words, but even more so by the genuine worry in his thin face as he shook my hand in parting._

_"Remember, Watson. No chances," he said again as I turned to get into the compartment, "I – I should not like to have to get myself another biographer."_

_I laughed, a little uneasily, trying to lighten his mood._

_"I doubt you could find one willing to put up with you, Holmes!" I called out the window as the train began to move._

_He smiled, but the smile did not reach his entire face. He lifted his hand in farewell, and then his face clouded over with a look I interpreted as worry. Then the train shot out of the station and I could no longer see him._

"Watson? Are you all right, man?" Sir Henry's voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"What? Oh, excuse me, Sir Henry. I do apologize; I was thinking of something."

"You miss Mr. Holmes, don't you, Doctor?"

The American's face showed nothing but sympathy, and I readily admitted the fact.

"I cannot help but feel I am in over my head," I replied.

We finished the rest of the meal in silence for the most part, and as Barrymore came in to clear the dishes, we both exited the room and headed to the drawing room. The baronet wished to show me some of the plans he had been discussing for refurbishing the Hall.

But before we had reached the room, Barrymore came hurrying after us, telling us that Stapleton was here to see Sir Henry.

We looked at each other, and he sighed. "I suppose I'll have to see the man," he grumbled, "show him into the study, Barrymore, I'll be there in just a second."

"He probably has come to apologize, Sir Henry," I said, as the baronet turned to go in that direction, "so have no fear – the man is not violent by nature; I would assume he now is much calmer than this morning."

The man gave me a small grin of thanks and disappeared into the hall leading to the study.

I wandered back to the dining room, waiting for Sir Henry to return. Aimlessly ambling around, I was not really looking at anything, my mind deep in thought.

I was endeavoring desperately to make something of the business, but I was having dreadful trouble focusing. Holmes always said a complete break from a task could clear the mind immensely, and I determined to put the matter from my mind for a while at least.

Barrymore was nearly finished clearing the table, and so I wandered over to the wall of splendid portraits on the left side of the room. Holmes's idea of art was simply atrocious in my opinion, but I should like to think that I at least can recognize a fine painting when I see one. And these really were fine.

My thoughts turned back to Holmes, as they had more and more the last few days especially, and I absently wondered what he would be doing in Baker Street about this hour. Probably giving Mrs. Hudson fits by not eating lunch, I decided with a wistful smile, or destroying the contents of the cabinet containing our case files.

How I wished he were here! I had never been out before for so long on a case all alone, and I very much did not like the feeling. I could not shake off that dark premonition of impending danger.

To rid myself of the feelings, I tried an exercise Holmes was often trying to sharpen my skills at – recognizing faces, and not people. Each time he donned one of his outrageous disguises, he would lecture me about paying attention to features and faces, and not their trimmings.

As I endeavored to do so on the portraits on the wall, trying to see the Baskervilles in them as only faces, not outrageous hairstyles or beards, I was intrigued by my own progress in being able to picture the men as they must have looked without those strange fashions I am so glad were outlawed long before my time.

I had started with Sir Charles, the late heir, and was working my way backwards. I had not yet finished when Sir Henry came in to find me staring fixedly at one of his ancestors. I must have looked slightly odd, for he started to laugh.

But it was a welcome sound to my ears, for the man had been near petrified after our chase on the moors last night, and the events of the morning with the Stapletons had done nothing but drag him deeper into his black mood.

"Well, what did the man have to say?" I asked, seeing his manner had lightened considerably.

He proceeded to tell me about Stapleton's handsome apology. I had to admit to being shocked beyond measure, for the sincerity and effusiveness of the thing seemed as out of character as his explosive nature had earlier.

But if Sir Henry was happy, then there was no harm done.

We spent the rest of the day looking at his plans for the Hall and then I went up to my room to write a report to Sherlock Holmes while Sir Henry looked over some paperwork.

After dinner that night, my attention wandered once more to the portraits on the wall, and this time I started at the other end, with the oldest one being that of Sir Hugo – the one legend said had been killed by a demon hound.

I was amusing myself with Holmes's little exercise when suddenly I stopped, and took another look at the painting.

No, it was impossible. My overwrought nerves were most definitely shot to pieces if I were seeing things of that nature.

Sir Henry had followed my gaze. "Is something wrong, Watson?" he asked, staring at Sir Hugo's portrait.

"No," I said lightly, wanting to laugh at my own ridiculously distraught state of mind, "nothing at all."

I thought no more about the matter until later that evening, when Barrymore knocked on the door of my room and told me a letter had arrived from London, special delivery. I thanked him and seated myself on the edge of the bed, opening it.

I expected the answer within to be just one more instance of my overwrought imagination. I could only guess as to what Holmes's reaction would be had he known what tricks my brain was playing on me. I was quite glad I had not told him what I was doing.

I opened the envelope, and two newspaper cuttings and a picture fell out. As I picked the photograph up from the floor and saw the caption 'Mr. & Mrs. James Vandeleur', my stomach suddenly twisted itself into a knot.

I had been right.

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**_To Be Continued - thanks for reading! Please review!_**


	3. I Have Felt the Presence of This Force

_**I Have Felt the Presence of This Force**_

**Disclaimer** - I own nothing, so deal with it.

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I had been right, after all. It was not a romantic imagining brought on by fatigue and overwrought nerves. I was right. 

At least on this one point.

I stared at the photograph for some minutes in silence, trying to piece the thing together. Then I picked up the articles, which were from a certain northern newspaper.

And as I read the information my librarian friend had forwarded to me (making me promise on pain of death to return said articles and photograph upon my arrival in London), my heart sank dismally for Sir Henry. He would be heartbroken at the news, and I for one was not prepared to shatter his dreams just yet.

I got up and began to pace up and down the small bedroom. What would Holmes do? I had some of the threads in my hands, but no proof yet of any actual illegal activities. How was I to get such proof that my suspicions were right?

My mind turned back to the portrait in the dining room. Had that really been my imagination playing tricks upon me? Because if not – but of course! There was the perfect motive! I had no doubt now that I was right.

I had the man, and I had the motive. But I had no idea as to the method. How had he murdered Sir Charles? And what of the gigantic hound's paw prints at the scene? What did he expect to gain from Sir Henry by continuing this extraordinary deception? And what part was the lady playing in the whole affair?

I replaced the information and the picture back into the envelope and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. Sir Henry had already gone to bed, and I knew I could do nothing until morning.

But my sleep was rather uneasy, haunted as it was by spectral demon hounds and dissimulating, evilly smiling butterfly-hunters.

It was quite a long night.

When I awakened the next morning, my mind was even more troubled than the night before. Should I tell Sir Henry of my suspicions? No, I could not. Holmes would need to do that.

I would send him a demanding wire as soon as I got to town today. London case or no London case, this affair was fast slipping out of my control, and I needed him desperately.

I met Sir Henry for breakfast, and in his cheery mood he did not notice my preoccupied manner, a fact for which I was devoutly grateful. Sometimes, there are perks to living with a man who is _not_ the keenest observer on the planet.

I could see through the windows that the day was dawning damp, foggy, and altogether miserable-looking. This did nothing whatever to help lift my downcast spirits.

The baronet was rambling eagerly on and on about the electric lights he intended to string up along the path leading to the Hall – rather garish, I thought, distractedly attempting to take an interest in the conversation. The American was so enthusiastic that he failed to notice my monosyllabic replies to his statements.

After breakfast, the butler asked Sir Henry if he might have a word with the man, and after a long look at me, the baronet took the man into his study. They remained there for the better part of a half-hour, and while they were gone, I inspected Sir Hugo's portrait once more in the light of day.

It was indeed as I had feared – this was no romantic, overly-suspicious figment of my imagination. Holmes had to come down here, at once, before something dreadful occurred.

The man has said, on more than one occasion, that I am not at all skillful at deception – a quality I am still not sure is a vice, or a virtue. But regardless, I was very much afraid I should not be able to fully hide my suspicions from our villain, if I were to run into him unexpectedly.

And if, as Holmes believed, the man was as brilliant as we thought, then he would instantly see a change in my demeanor.

That cloud of danger that I had been keeping at bay for the past fortnight began to swirl up closer and closer on my overwrought senses, so that when Sir Henry unceremoniously bellowed for me from down the hall, I jumped like a frightened rabbit.

I stifled a laugh, for I knew how much the American's very unorthodox methods were grating on the poor butler and his wife's nerves. Sir Henry steadfastly refused to use the bell-pulls scattered throughout the house if his own voice would serve just as well, saying he had never had them before and he wasn't about to start using them now.

And our cousins across the sea think that we British are stubborn and phlegmatic.

I entered the study and saw the baronet and his butler discussing a matter in animated tones and gestures.

In a few words, Sir Henry explained about the escaped convict and his prospective departure from the country, aided by Barrymore's statement that Seldon was insanely afraid of people and would not harm anyone further.

I am quite used to compounding felonies, but evidently the baronet was not, for my answer to live and let live seemed to surprise him a good deal. I suppose he expected strict adherence to British law coming from me. The thought made me laugh inside – Sherlock Holmes had his own set of British laws, and I answered to no other than his and my consciences.

Barrymore thanked us and turned to leave; then he spun round and came back to where we were standing.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death," he said, looking from me to Sir Henry.

We were both on our feet in the instant, firing questions at the stoic butler. I held my breath as the man spoke, knowing that what he said might be one of the missing links I needed.

I willed myself to remember each word of what he said. "_Details, Watson, details!_" I could almost hear Holmes saying.

I listened intently as Barrymore reeled off to us how his wife had found part of a note in Sir Charles's study, signed with the initials L.L., in a feminine hand, and how it was that letter that had brought the man to the gate at that hour of the night, where he had met his death in that most mysterious manner.

L.L. What possible connection could she and her note be with the man I believed was behind this? I knew I had to find out, and without delay. Barrymore had said the letter was from Coombe Tracey. That would be my first port of call.

I told Sir Henry I had to make a report to Holmes at once, and he promised not to step foot upon the moor until my return that evening, remarking with a grimace that he hoped the rest of his life as a baronet would not be spent in going through so much paperwork.

Then I set out for the town, to catch the train to Coombe Tracey. As I walked, I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer in his buggy and welcomed his offer of a ride to the station – the last few nights had been rather sleepless for me and I was indeed beginning to feel the effects of the strain.

We chatted for a few minutes about various issues, and then I gently steered the conversation around to the man's acquaintances. I asked him if he knew of a woman with the initials L.L.

His forehead wrinkled for a moment, and then he spoke. "No, there is no one around here by that name – but wait. There is Laura Lyons, but she lives in Coombe Tracey."

There it was - the key to the matter.

Mortimer went on to tell me she was old Frankland's daughter and of how she had been badly used by her former husband, who had now deserted her - her father had disowned her at the time of her marriage. Mortimer mentioned that both he and Sir Charles had helped set the girl up in a typewriting business, and the fact interested me. There was the link between the girl and Sir Charles.

Now I only had to find the one between her and Stapleton. As soon as I had done so, I would wire Holmes straightway and tell him all.

Pray heaven he would find the time to drop his important London case and get down here before the net closed on us. I could feel it tightening, slowly, and inexorably tightening, and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it.

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**_To be continued...thanks for reading! Please review!_**


	4. And I have Deduced Its Action

_**I Have Deduced Its Action**_

**Disclaimer** - I own nothing!

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I left Mortimer in town and walked to the station – I did not want him to know where I was going in case he let it slip to Stapleton. The train for Coombe Tracey did not leave for thirty more minutes, and so I sat outside the station and pulled out the newspaper articles once more to read them over again. 

There could be no doubt about the man. I sighed, replacing the articles in my pocket, and glanced at my watch. Still fifteen minutes.

I was so used to flying into railway stations with ten seconds to spare in the company of Sherlock Holmes (I think I could count on one hand the number of times we had actually been _early_ for a train) that I did not know what to do with myself.

"_Think, Watson,_" I heard the familiar voice say in my head. Think, then. Very well.

I would assume this Laura Lyons had some connection with Stapleton. What then, was that link between them? It could not be a love of nature – for she lived in town and was a typist; completely opposite to the naturalist.

I doubted it could be friendship with the man's so-called sister, for their personalities probably did not mesh together in the least; the hidden passionate fires of a Latin beauty, and the ill-used daughter of the greatest crank within thirty miles – no, they simply would not be compatible.

Was she his accomplice in Sir Charles's death? The facts of the letter, asking the late baronet to meet her at the gate, seemed to bear that out. But what would have been her motive? The money? Was she really that desperate for money?

And that brought up the interesting question – regardless of the motive, Stapleton had to have some hold over her, something that would make her willing to be his accomplice in crime. I did not see the man offering her an enormous amount of cash – he was far too selfish for that.

"_Eliminate the impossible - _" I heard Holmes say, and I finished the quote in my head. _And whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

I could see no other hold he might have over her other than that of love – the strongest hold of all over a woman.

And if that were the case, then I might be able to make her talk with the aid of the information I held in my pocket.

I sighed, almost worn out with the efforts of my feeble deductions – no doubt Holmes would have made them in a matter of seconds, whereas it had taken me ten minutes. How I missed him!

I got up, preparing to board my waiting train, when I saw an all-too-familiar figure walking down the platform towards me.

Stapleton.

What the devil was he doing at the station? Why now? Had he been following me? Did he suspect I knew the truth?

I hastily ducked behind a pile of luggage, waiting to see if he had seen me. It did not appear so – he remained on the platform, merely watching the crowd. I had only three minutes to get on my train – was he just going to stand there looking around until it left?

I had to board. I remembered Holmes's saying that the most obvious hiding place is the safest, and so I straightened up, acted perfectly normally, and then nonchalantly walked around the luggage, entering the closest empty compartment I saw.

I forced myself to not look in Stapleton's direction, knowing that eye contact would have been too risky, and sat in the shadowed side of the seat, hoping he would not take it into his head to walk along the train.

Less than a minute later, the train pulled out of the station. I chanced a glance back – and the naturalist was gone. Thank God for small favors; he must have given up. If he was indeed following me.

Sighing with relief, I sat back in my seat, hoping to catch a much-needed nap during the short ride. However, I found that my mind was too busily thinking. No wonder Holmes never slept when engaged on a case – it was terrible the way the thing would not let go of my brain.

This was not supposed to be my role in our partnership – I was dreadfully unqualified. But my last letter to Holmes had done everything but plead pathetically for him to come down to us, and all I got in return was a telegram saying, "Less romance, more facts. Details, Watson."

I had not received any communications from him other than that and other equally laconic wires – it was almost as if he were not really the one sending the telegrams, so impersonal his messages had been. He must truly be busily engaged elsewhere, I thought wistfully, wishing I were on whatever case was so absorbing that he had all but forgotten about the Hound of the Baskervilles.

My selfish thoughts were interrupted by the warning in the corridor for the Coombe Tracey Station. I glanced into my pocketbook to see if the address Mortimer had given me for Mrs. Lyons was still safely inside, which it was.

When the train stopped, I got off the train, hailed a cab, and made my way to the address in question.

The lady herself was in at the moment, and a maid showed me to a spacious but not extravagant sitting-room, where Mrs. Lyons was seated at a small typewriter.

She was certainly a very handsome woman, albeit there was a certain hardness about her face that spoke of her ill treatment at the hands of the men in her life. I was suddenly very, very nervous about how to conduct this part of an investigation – Holmes always did the talking for both of us, and I actually had no idea where to begin.

I made some remark about knowing her father, and she responded with no little anger about how he had disowned her, and were it not for friends like the late Sir Charles she would have been left absolutely destitute.

That gave me the opening I needed. "It is about the late Sir Charles that I have come to see you, Mrs. Lyons," I said, trying to be as gentle as I could.

As I tried to question her, the lady grew quite heated, as was to be expected when a perfect stranger is trying to pry into one's private affairs, but I knew I could not simply let the matter drop.

At one point, she ordered me from the room. But as I stood, I decided to try a piece of dramatics worthy of Sherlock Holmes and said, "Mrs. Lyons, what would you say if I told you that Mr. Stapleton is a married man?"

Mrs. Lyons's flushed face instantly paled, and she looked at me in shock. I knew I had been right. She was in love with the scoundrel, and he had used her to accomplish his own means.

"He is not!" she breathed, sitting back down limply in her chair, her beautiful eyes staring at me.

I sat back down as well, and leaned forward earnestly.

"He is indeed, Mrs. Lyons, I am quite sorry to say," I said gently.

"Prove it! Prove it to me, and if you can –" her eyes flashed with a hidden fire of indignation.

"I am prepared to do so," I said, handing her the envelope with the photograph from London and the news clippings.

The woman stared for a moment at the incriminating photograph and then read the clippings. Her face grew paler still, and I thought she might perhaps faint. Then she rallied herself with an effort, replaced the papers in the envelope, and handed it back to me.

Then that extraordinary woman began to tell me all I wanted to know. And such a sordid affair it was, too.

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**_Thanks for sticking with it - I know it's been boring so far but it was necessary! Much more drama in Chapter Five! _**

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	5. I Seized My Thread and Followed It

_**I Seized My Thread and Followed It**_

**Disclaimer -** I still own nada.

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"He used me," she whispered, her voice trembling and her lovely eyes filling with tears. 

"I am afraid he did, Mrs. Lyons," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

She stared vacantly into space for a moment, and then took a deep breath and looked back at me. And the fire of a woman wronged was fueling her explanations to me.

Stapleton had promised her marriage if she could get a divorce from her husband, she explained, and that was why she had written to Sir Charles on the night of his death. She was going to ask him for a loan of the amount necessary for the divorce.

"Stapleton suggested the meeting?" I asked.

"He dictated the letter," she said bitterly.

Laura Lyons went on to tell me that at the last moment, Stapleton had convinced her not to go to the meeting, saying that for another man to pay for his fiancée's divorce would hurt his pride.

His pride, indeed. The man was truly, as Holmes had said, possessing the cunning and the wickedness of the Evil One himself.

"You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Lyons," I said as we finished our conversation and I turned to leave.

"Lucky, Dr. Watson?" she asked, her bitter tone betraying her deeply scarred feelings.

"Yes, madam. This man is rather an expert at removing obstacles. You knew the truth, all this time, and yet you are still alive," I said pointedly, "Sir Charles Baskerville was _not_ so lucky."

She looked at me for a moment, and then nodded sadly.

"I am truly sorry, Mrs. Lyons. But rest assured, this man shall be caught, and very soon now justice shall be met. I am sorry you have been a pawn in the drama."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," the woman said, dropping her gaze as I left the room.

I truly did feel sorry for the woman, but not as much as I did for Sir Henry. His hopes and dreams were soon to be shattered much more rudely than Mrs. Lyons's were. She at least suspected Stapleton of complicity in Sir Charles's death. Sir Henry completely trusted both his supposed future brother-in-law and his supposed lady love.

My stomach turned with the thought of the horrible deceptions at work here. Aside from the danger to Sir Henry's very life, the danger to his mind and heart were going to be considerable even if – I mean when – the man was finally caught.

I at last had all the threads in my hand, and I felt some of that familiar exultation Holmes exuded when he was hot upon the trail of the criminal. I knew all – now the only thing remaining would be to obtain the proof. And I would be more than happy to leave that task to Holmes.

I arrived a couple of hours later back in the small town where I was wont to post letters to Holmes, and I went straight to the office to send an urgent telegram that should bring him down to the moor on the instant.

There was absolutely no one on duty, and so I took a blank form from the desk and walked to the table by the door to begin my message. I was in the midst of composing it when I heard a voice behind me that sent a chill through my very core.

"Dr. Watson! How are you? I haven't seen you around much, even when I was at the Hall yesterday!"

It was Stapleton! I forced myself to refrain from shoving the half-composed telegram under the ink-blotter, knowing that would instantly arouse the man's suspicions.

Praying that my face would betray nothing, I turned to meet the man with a smile that belied the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at my knowledge of the man's true character.

His little eyes were dancing with a carefree attitude that made my blood run cold. No one would ever suspect that this man was one of the worst villains Holmes and I had ever encountered.

"Stapleton, how are you?"

"Doing splendidly, Doctor. I have had a most productive day in my hunting! I have got one of my catches right where I want it!"

His eyes flickered down to the telegram on the desk, and I used all my self-control to not crumple it up in my hand.

Then I wondered if his words held a veiled threat to me. Was he referring to me? Had he seen me board the train for Coombe Tracey, and did he know why I went there?

I swallowed hard as the man went on. "Beryl and I should love to have you lunch with us, Doctor!" He bubbled effusively.

"I thank you, Stapleton, but I am afraid I cannot leave Sir Henry to lunch alone – I promised him I would be back this afternoon. Thank you very much indeed, though, and please thank your sister for me as well," I mechanically performed the necessary courtesies, hoping my voice did not change on the word _sister_.

Sister, indeed.

Stapleton insisted quite vigorously, and a vague fear began to rise in the back of my mind, waving a red flag of warning.

"I do apologize, Stapleton, but I really must be back at the Hall within the hour, or Sir Henry will wonder where I've got to," I fibbed, knowing that the baronet would not even miss me until late that evening. I hoped my statement would forestall any ideas the man might have if he suspected I knew the truth.

To my abject relief, the man sighed in apparently genuine disappointment. "Well, then, you must come to dine with us along with Sir Henry next week, if you are still with us by then, eh?"

Again I wondered if it were a subtle threat or if my imagination was just being overly suspicious.

"I should be delighted," I forced myself to say, making a smile appear on my face with difficulty.

"Good! Good! I shall be seeing you around then, Doctor," the man said, nodding a goodbye to me and exiting the front door.

Limp as a rag, I bowed my head over the desk I had been using, thanking God that the devil was gone, for the moment at least. But the momentary relief I felt did nothing to assuage that feeling of impending danger that continued to grow at the back of my over-active mind.

I started the telegram once more, telling Holmes I had stumbled unwittingly upon what I knew to be the truth, and that he needed to come at once. I finished it, blotted the 'gram, and then as an addendum, I was adding a postscript, telling my friend that I believed the man himself was on to me and I feared for my safety, when I suddenly heard a stealthy step behind me.

Too late, I realized that there was still no one in the tiny office – probably in this little town, they did not see the need to close it up when the one elderly operator went on his luncheon break. I was all alone in the place.

Except for the man who had stepped up behind me and was now speaking in a low, menacing voice in my ear.

"And now, Doctor, let us see that telegram you were sending to Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

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**_Oooh, not another cliffhanger! Don't worry - you know me, I have no self-control and the next chapter shall be up soon! _**

**_Please review if you liked it! Or even if you didn't, review anyway?_**


	6. And It Led Me to Him

_**And It Led Me to Him**_

**Disclaimer** - I still own nothing.

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"And now, Doctor, let's see that telegram you were sending to Mr. Sherlock Holmes." 

I stiffened. Stapleton! He _had_ realized I was on to his game.

How I wished I had brought my revolver with me on this morning's excursions! I had left it in my cloth jacket at the Hall – I had at the last second switched to a heavier overcoat because of the chilly, damp weather. And I had been unforgivably remiss in not moving the gun to my other coat.

A mistake which was liable to cost me dearly.

I thought briefly about attacking the man – I knew I could easily be a match for the little naturalist, but even as I contemplated such a course, the man's malicious voice broke into my thoughts.

"I would not try anything of the kind, Dr. Watson. I am armed with a heavily weighted cane - quite a lethal weapon if I chose to use it. Although I would like nothing better than to let you see my skill with the thing, I need a little information first. You won't mind if I take that message?"

"Stapleton, you know full well that if I'm on to your little game, then so is Sherlock Holmes. You are out of time." It was a bluff, and he knew it.

"I don't believe so, Doctor. You see, I met Dr. Mortimer in town this morning, and I managed to get out of him the information that you had been inquiring after my – ahem – ex-fiancée."

"You are a scoundrel, Stapleton!" I hissed angrily, the man's innate callousness making me almost physically ill.

He gave one of those chilling, happy little laughs. "Yes, I am rather, am I not?" he asked, finally snatching the telegram from my hand.

"I decided it might be prudent to follow you at that juncture, Doctor, and I have been all the morning. I have to admire your nerve, Watson, I really do – did you realize I got on the train behind you or did you think I had given up?"

What a fool I had been! To think that so easily I could be rid of the man – he had been following me the whole time, and I had not once checked behind me for pursuers!

Another mistake I had the feeling I would soon regret.

Stapleton read over the message to Holmes quickly, and his smiling face darkened to a countenance full of evil rage.

"So, Doctor, I was right. You had not had time to tell Holmes of your suspicions yet. He yet knows nothing of me!"

His eyes blazed with the madness of triumph, and a cold wave of fear rushed over me like a flood of ice water. He crumpled up the paper and triumphantly threw it into the wastepaper basket.

Stapleton brandished the large stick, weighted with lead on the top (one of Holmes's favorite weapons - I knew the damage they could do), to show me he was not bluffing, as I had hoped, and I realized the situation was indeed rather desperate.

As Stapleton motioned me out the door with another of those chilling smiles, I sent up a silent plea that Holmes would come down as soon as a day went by with his not hearing from me. If he did not, then I knew neither I nor Sir Henry would stand a chance of surviving this adventure.

As matters stood now, it did not look like I possessed much of a chance whatsoever. I could only hope that Holmes would be able to save Sir Henry from the nets this butterfly-hunter had so carefully placed around his feet.

Stapleton pushed me out the door, and I was hard pressed to choke down my mounting fear. I had been foolish enough to be trapped like one of Stapleton's own butterflies - I dearly hoped that Holmes would not fall into the same net.

* * *

_Holmes's POV_

It was late evening when I finally reached the stately doors of Baskerville Hall, quite out of breath from my run across the moors. My intense anxiety overcame my manners and I brushed past the surprised Barrymore, hastening to where I could see a light burning in what I assumed was Sir Henry's study.

I threw the door open and rushed in, to find a startled baronet staring at me amidst a litter of papers on his desk.

"Mr. Holmes! What – when did you get here?" the American asked in surprise.

I was endeavoring to regain my customary composure and calm, but I was at that moment nearer panic than anything else. I must have looked quite dreadful, for the baronet was staring at me as if I had gone mad.

And at that moment, I felt as if I might have.

"Sir Henry, these questions can wait. Has Watson come back yet?" I asked, trying to catch my breath after my sprint across the countryside.

"No, and I'm getting worried about him, Holmes. He said he'd be back by late afternoon but he still hasn't returned. He missed dinner, too – and that's a little odd," the baronet responded.

I felt my forehead crease with worry as the faint hope I had at first entertained went crashing to the ground like a wounded animal.

I was about to endeavor to explain my unceremonious conduct when there was a pounding of feet in the corridor and I heard Barrymore's voice remonstrating with my little helper, Cartwright.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the boy gasped, skidding around a corner and dashing through the doorway. He was grasping a crumpled piece of paper in his grimy hand, staring at me while trying to catch his breath.

"Cartwright! Hold up, lad!" I exclaimed as he slid to a stop in front of me.

"It's all right, Barrymore," I heard the baronet say, seeing the distraught butler in the doorway.

The man nodded dubiously and went on about his way, while Sir Henry turned his attention to myself, walking round his desk to ask me what was going on.

"Holmes?"

"A moment, Sir Henry, if you please. What have you found, Cartwright?" I hardly dared to breathe, waiting for the boy's answer.

The lad took a deep breath, still gasping from his run, and shoved the wad of paper at me. I opened the crumpled telegraph form and then felt my face drain of all color.

No! How could he have been so close without my realizing it? Why had he not told me before this? Now that devil in the form of a naturalist had - had - I grew ill thinking of what could have happened.

A moment later I sensed rather than felt Baskerville and Cartwright pushing me into the nearest chair. I could see nothing but that piece of paper in front of me - it might as well have been Watson's death certificate, from what I knew of our opponent.

"Holmes, what the devil is going on!"

"Cartwright, did you find out what happened?" I ignored the baronet for a moment, needing to know the details.

"No, Mr. 'Olmes. There weren't nobody in the place at the time, I guess. Found that crumpled up in th' basket, thrown away, like," the lad said earnestly, "nobody's seen either of 'em since the station this afternoon."

"He's got him, then," I whispered miserably, staring morosely at the stone walls of Sir Henry's study, "that devil has Watson."

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**_Oh, the suspense! Please review - thanks for reading!_**


	7. Then Keep Away From the Moor

_**Then Keep Away from the Moor**_

**Disclaimer** - Still nothing.

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**A/N: I've had more than one complaint about the third person narration - it took a while and a bit of working at it, but I finally got it all switched over to first person in Holmes's POV. My apologies - and my thanks to** _Igiveup_ **for first drawing my attention to the flaw.

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**

"He's got him, then," I whispered, staring morosely at the stone walls of Sir Henry's study, "that devil has Watson."

I was vaguely aware of Sir Henry Baskerville's startled stares.

"Will somebody please tell me what in the world is going on!?" he exclaimed.

"Sir?" I heard Cartwright speak up to the baronet.

"Yes?"

"Mr. 'Olmes has been livin' on th' moor since the Doctor and you came down 'ere, Sir. 'E's been havin' me keep an eye out for the Doctor while 'e noses about and does 'is detectin'."

If my mind had not been caught up in the throes of fear for Watson's safety, I should have laughed at the expression on the American's face as he endeavored to understand Cartwright's Lower London accent.

The lad went on, rattling off his story.

"This mornin' I lost th' Doctor's trail at the train station, an' I 'aven't been able to pick 'im up since then. So I nipped back to the telegraph office, an' although the man on duty said nobody'd been in there all day, 'e also said it's unlocked for 'bout an hour when 'e goes out for 'is lunch, see."

Baskerville nodded.

"An' then I went rummagin' through the waste baskets just to see if the Doctor might 'ave sent a telegram and thrown the blottin' paper away – but I found th' act'l telegram. 'E'd never sent it – somethin' must've 'appened while 'e was in the office."

The boy's eyes were wide with worry mirroring the near-panic on my own face, as then I handed the baronet the piece of paper and began pacing up and down the room nervously, trying to get a grip on myself. I had to control these emotions or I would be useless to find and stop Stapleton.

I heard Sir Henry murmur the words aloud after smoothing out the telegram. "HOLMES HAVE STUMBLED UPON TRUE FACTS SURROUNDING SIR CHARLES'S DEATH STOP KNOW DEFINITELY WHO MURDERER IS STOP I NEED YOU COME AT ONCE STOP BELIEVE HE SUSPECTS I KNOW TRUTH PLEASE HURRY" - the message stopped there; obviously Watson had been interrupted before he could finish or sign it.

I was still pacing up and down, my eyes fixed unseeingly on the carpet. Where was Watson? What had Stapleton done with - or to - him? The horrid thoughts were nearly driving me mad.

"Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Not now, Cartwright," I snapped reflexively, wanting to be alone with my disturbing thoughts.

The lad was not fazed whatsoever by my brusqueness.

"Mr. 'Olmes, I'll 'op the next train for London an' bring back Inspector Lestrade with a warrant, all right, Sir?"

The boy's innocent but good sound sense finally broke through to me, and I smiled a little.

"Very good, lad. One moment, I'll give you a note to give them at the Yard and money for the fare."

I pulled out my memo-book, scribbled a short note to Lestrade detailing the grave situation, and then handed it and a couple sovereigns to Cartwright, who nodded understandingly and scampered off without another word.

"Holmes, will you _please_ tell me what's been going on? Confound it, man, evidently both you _and_ Watson have been hiding facts from me, and I want to know what's been taking place here!" The baronet's already thin patience had finally snapped.

And mine had as well.

"You are not the only one from whom Watson has hidden facts, Sir Henry!" I snarled right back at him. "I did not know he was even guessing _close_ to the heart of the matter until Cartwright told me he had lost him at the train station this morning!"

"He didn't tell you anything?" Baskerville asked in surprise.

My nerves completely shot to pieces, I limply dropped once more into the chair with a sigh.

"No, nothing. According to his last report, he was safely on the wrong track; thinking the man you saw the night of the convict hunt was the mysterious murderer. Not so – that was I, when I was imprudent enough to allow the moon to rise behind me."

Baskerville thought deeply. "Now that you mention it, he was acting rather strangely all day yesterday, and this morning," he said to me. I knew exactly why.

"He must have stumbled upon the man we are after, learned everything, and then that knowledge became too dangerous for him to be allowed to – to – remain free," my voice shook with the realization of what I had almost said - 'allowed to live'.

What was I saying? My horrified senses were definitely in a muddle. Could Stapleton have actually killed him outright?

No, surely not yet. Stapleton would keep him alive as a tool to bargain with as a last resort, wouldn't he?

But I knew the man's innate evil mind; what he was capable of was enough to terrify any normal man. And the thoughts sent a wave of chilling fear washing over even me.

I firmly pushed all my troublesome emotions to the back of my mind and tamped down hard on them - I must, I _must_ remain lucid and a clear thinker. That was the only thing that could save Watson now.

Sir Henry had been watching me worriedly. He looked slightly relieved when I took charge of the situation that had come dangerously close to spiralling out-of-control.

"Sir Henry, I need you to –"

I was interrupted by Barrymore's polite knock at the doorway.

"Yes, what is it, Barrymore?" Baskerville asked in exasperation.

"Mr. Stapleton is here to see you, Sir," the butler replied.

I could not retrain a sharp intake of breath - Stapleton, here? How? What a nerve the fiend had!

My first thought was to use my rather remarkable prowess at boxing as a weapon to make the man to tell me what he had done with Watson. Force is not ususally my weapon of choice, but I would positively relish the opportunity with this monster.

But no, I knew that would not help matters. I had absolutely no proof, and if I tried something of that sort, then Stapleton would kill Watson without a second thought.

If he had not done so already.

I dropped back down into my chair, using every ounce of my self-control to drop that usual calm, collected mask over my features. Stapleton was an incomparable actor - but so was I.

And two could play at that game.

The man I so hated, and so feared, was soon standing before us. His eyes flitted rapidly over to me, and a look of slight unease crossed his face.

"Sir Henry? I was wondering – why, Mr. Holmes! We - we didn't expect to see you so soon!" Stapleton's tone changed drastically as he faltered slightly over the last sentence.

_No doubt,_ I wanted to reply dryly, but I refrained myself.

"I decided to come down and check up on things," I said instead, waving off Stapleton's effusive greetings, "just a quick visit – I must return to London tomorrow morning."

I saw the baronet start in surprise, and I fervently hoped he would give nothing away by his reactions.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Stapleton?" Baskerville turned his attention back to the naturalist.

"Well, Sir Henry – I am afraid it will not be a pleasure visit when I tell you why I am here," the man said, casting an uneasy eye at me. I felt a growing sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at his words.

"Well?" Baskerville replied, gazing at the man quizzically.

"Well, Sir Henry, I was wondering if you had seen Dr. Watson anywhere about in the last few hours?"

"No, we have not," I interrupted the baronet as he was about to tell Stapleton about Cartwright and the telegram - he would have given all my plans away had I not! - , "I was wondering myself where he had got to."

I forced my voice to be cold, utterly devoid of any emotion, and I know Sir Henry wondered at it. Thank God, he kept silent and allowed me to take the lead in the conversation.

Stapleton shifted his weight uneasily on his feet, obviously ill at ease under my scrutinizing gaze.

"Well, I saw him earlier today, and we heard that peculiar noise once more out on the moor – you know, Sir Henry, the one that sounds like, well, -"

"Like a hound howling in the heart of the Grimpen? Yes, man, get on with it," Sir Henry said in exasperation.

"Well, sir, we had heard it once before, and he expressed some desire of wanting to investigate the sound and try to penetrate that quicksand – you know, of course, that it is impossible; only I have learnt its secrets in my pursuit of those rare butterflies that live amongst the mire," Stapleton went on.

"Yes?" I snapped impatiently, desperately not wanting to hear whatever story the man was going to concoct for us.

Stapleton eyed me and then went on, "Well, again he said something about trying to get out to the middle of the Mire, and again I told him not to try it – it is far too dangerous. And then we went our separate ways, and I thought no more about it. But this evening –"

"Yes, this evening?" I swallowed hard.

"Well, Sir, this evening I was chasing a particularly beautiful specimen of _Lepidoptera_ out into the Mire, following the path that only I know exists, when – when I found this," the man said, pulling from his carrying case a mud-encrusted object.

My stomach lurched as I saw the object - the small pocket-sized black notebook that Watson never went anywhere without.

I began to feel very ill, indeed.

"I am dreadfully afraid for him, Sir Henry, - Mr. Holmes, - that he went against all my warnings and tried to penetrate the Mire's secrets," Stapleton told us, looking at each of us in turn for our reactions.

We both stood as if frozen - Baskerville in horrified shock at the news, and I in absolute revulsion for the villain standing before me and in petrifying fear for the life of the dearest person on earth to me.

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**_To Be Continued...please review!_**


	8. In the Hours of Darkness

_**In the Hours of Darkness**_

**Disclaimer** - I surely wish I owned them. – _deep sigh_ – on with the melodrama!

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_Holmes_

Sir Henry gasped in shock at the news Stapleton had told us and then looked at me.

I was trying desperately not to let the absolute hatred I held for this man show on my face, but it was a struggle. Stapleton frightened me more than any villain I had yet encountered - he was cool, calculating, and deadly.

And he had Watson.

The thought seemed to drain the energy from my mind and body. Baskerville pushed me back toward the chair I had previously vacated, and I sat heavily down in it.

"I – I'm terribly sorry, Sir Henry, Mr. Holmes."

Stapleton's apologetic condolences probably were a welcome relief to Sir Henry, but I was hard pressed to not get up and throttle the little liar - and such a liar! Every fibre of his being spoke of falsehood and treachery.

Baskerville thanked Stapleton for his coming by to let us know, etc. and then called for Barrymore to show the man out.

"And bring us a couple of stiff whiskies, Barrymore!" he called after the butler's retreating form.

I was glad to hear his last statement - I needed a strong drink rather. I gently wrapped Watson's notebook in my pocket-handkerchief and put it in my jacket pocket.

"Mr. Holmes, what's going on?" Baskerville asked dazedly.

"Something deadly, Sir Henry," I whispered, trying to rein in my fear. "I cannot tell you everything now. May I occupy a room here at the Hall tonight? I need a place to remain alone and think."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. I shall have Barrymore make up a room for you at once."

"Thank you, but Watson's will do just as well – I need to inspect it for clues at any rate," I returned, gratefully accepting the drink Barrymore had brought silently into the room and left on the table.

The baronet nodded, and it was only a few moments later that I stalked out of the study in deep thought, not noticing anything else and not caring. Only one man, one life, was on my mind at that point in time.

I spent the first hour in Watson's room looking around, searching for the evidence I knew Watson must have come across, but finding absolutely nothing – Watson must have been carrying the evidence on his person at the time of his disappearance, which meant that undoubtedly Stapleton had it by now.

I did find an item that turned me sick with fear all over again – Watson's revolver still remained in a light cloth jacket upon the bed. He had not even been armed when Stapleton found him – he had not even stood a ghost of a chance to defend himself.

Was he even still alive? That was the question that would not give my mind a moment's peace, hammering into it over and over. Was Watson alive? Stapleton certainly had no reason to keep him so, unless to use him as a bartering tool with me.

And the man was obviously adept at destroying anything or anyone who got in his way. I shivered and wrapped my coat closer about me.

But still, the man had not got rid of Laura Lyons – perhaps there was hope for Watson as well. And I had to cling to any hope, however faint, or lose my sanity.

However, I knew time was running out for Watson. Lestrade would arrive with a search and arrest warrant tomorrow about midday, and I had until then to devise a plan to entrap the butterfly-hunter in a net of his own wickedness.

I had to catch the naturalist and his demon hound and then I would find Watson – if I tried to find my friend first, Stapleton would either flee or do more harm to Watson.

I sat down at Watson's writing desk, resting my chin in my hand, and my eyes fell upon the partially-started letter to me that yet remained on the flat surface. An unaccountable lump rose in my throat, and I shoved the paper out of sight under a book.

Then I got out a blank piece of foolscap, and began scribbling out a plan of action for the morrow.

There would be no sleep for me that night.

* * *

_Watson_

As I sat in the dark outbuilding on Stapleton's estate, my hands tied tightly behind my back and my ankles bound together, my overwrought mind was racing a hundred miles a minute.

Would Sir Henry realize something was amiss when I did not return to the Hall that night? Or would he just assume I had decided to pursue some inquiry in town?

If he did realize ought was wrong, I calculated, it would take at least until mid-day tomorrow before he could get the news to Sherlock Holmes. And it would be late night before Holmes was able to make the train to Dartmoor.

Then, Holmes would have to find out who the criminal was, unless he already had been able to deduce his identity by my reports, which I doubted, and then he would have to set a trap for the man. And only after all that would he be able to locate me.

That could take two, but more probably three days. I shivered at the thought, for I could not see Stapleton keeping me alive that long.

The thought gave me energy to try yet again, for the thousandth time, to free my hands. It was of no use – Stapleton was too intelligent to allow me an easy escape route. My wrists were now raw from how often I had struggled, albeit futilely, to loosen the rough rope that bound them together.

The outbuilding I had been unceremoniously shoved into upon our arrival at Merripit House was absolutely devoid of anything other than a few cans of what I assumed was some kind of paint. There were no tools I could get at, and I had been unable to find any nails protruding from the wood or sharp edges of any loose boards to assist me in freeing myself.

Fighting down the mounting fear and feeling of absolute helplessness lurking in the back of my consciousness, I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind, taking stock of my surroundings.

Through a crack in two of the wall boards I could see that darkness had begun to fall upon the country – I had been in here for several hours. My hands were beginning to grow quite numb, and my mind was conjuring up all kinds of dreadful images of what Stapleton should do to Sir Henry now that I was not with him.

I had failed – failed miserably. I had failed Sir Henry in not being aware enough of my surroundings to realize Stapleton was on to me, and worse still, I had failed my friend Sherlock Holmes. He had trusted me to carry out this mission, and I had failed him. Completely, absolutely failed him.

I believed I could say I had not yet ever done so before. And now, on such an important case - that this should be the one I failed him in! How I cursed my own incompetence.

I could only pray that my failure would not cost Holmes or the baronet any harm because of my lack of watchfulness.

I suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and I listened intently. Yes, I recognized them to be Stapleton's. They were too heavy to be his wife's. I had not even seen the lady; Stapleton had forced me without preamble into the carriage waiting outside the telegraph office and we had come directly to Merripit House.

There, he had walked me round the house, secured me as I was now in this abandoned outhouse, and left me, after a sinister giggle when I would not rise to the taunts he threw at me about being the 'bumbling emissary of the great Sherlock Holmes'.

I braced myself, not knowing what the man was coming to do. Was he going to kill me right here and now? With that devil, anything was possible, I knew. And under cover of the approaching darkness, he could, quite literally, get away with murder.

My murder.

I swallowed hard as the footsteps drew nearer.

Then the door opened, and I saw Stapleton framed in the doorway, a dark lantern in his hand.

"I want to show you something, Doctor," the man said, favoring me with one of those horrid little giggles he was so fond of, "so I must ask you to be so kind as to come with me."

I was contemplating kicking the man in the face when he bent down to untie my ankles, but I knew that even if I could somehow overpower him, I would never be able to get far, bound as I was, and with his man-servant close at hand. There would be a better time to attempt an escape.

Besides, if I could be patient until Sherlock Holmes was able to find me, then he would have an eyewitness's account of the man's atrocities and all the evidence a court would require.

If - _if -_ I could survive for that long. Three days, with the man who murdered Sir Charles in cold blood? I desperately fought to squelch the rapidly rising panic that was growing within me.

"_Focus, Watson. Do not antagonize the man,_" I again could almost hear that familiar voice's advice in my head, and for some odd reason I found it greatly comforting.

I took a deep breath as Stapleton hauled me to my feet, laughing when I stumbled – my limbs had gone partially numb during my five-hour imprisonment. He again laughed when I tripped coming out of the outbuilding into the fast-darkening sky, and I gritted my teeth, saying nothing.

I would not give him any reaction whatsoever. I had to hold on for the next three days. I simply had to. For Holmes's sake, as well as my own. And Sir Henry's. I knew I must remain calm and lucid. Holmes would find me.

Or would he? I firmly shoved the tiny doubt down into the farthest recesses of my mind. Of course he would find me, as long as I calmly played for time until then.

Which was becoming increasingly hard to do, being forced across the moors at gunpoint by a murderous madman.

I breathed a silent prayer that Holmes would lose no speed in discovering something was wrong and coming down to my rescue. He was indeed my only hope of survival.

But he _was_ a hope. And I would never give up hope, especially about Sherlock Holmes.

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**_To be continued...thanks for reading! Please review!_**


	9. When the Powers of Evil

_**When the Powers of Evil**_

**Disclaimer** - nope, I own nothing.

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_Watson_

I still shudder to think of those dreadful hours of that awful night when I found myself being forced at gunpoint, my hands still tied tightly behind me, across the desolate and dark moor.

There was no moon, and the faint glow from the shielded dark lantern the villain held was the only light by which I could pick my way over the uneven ground beside the man. He, of course, knew the country like the back of his hand.

I grew more and more nervous and, I must confess, more frightened each minute that passed by. Stapleton refused to say even a word to me, knowing how much his silence unnerved me, and I was using every vestige of my thin self-control to tamp down hard on the fear that was mounting steadily within me.

The rapidly decreasing temperature made me shiver with cold as much as with unease – it was going to be an extremely chilly night.

After a long, wearying hour, Stapleton halted and indicated the wide expanses that lay before us. I swallowed with difficulty – we were at the edge of the great Grimpen Mire.

Was he going to take me out into it and push me into a pit of quicksand to die? I could not repress a shudder at the horrible thought of such a very horrible death.

Then Stapleton pushed me onward, straight into the desolate expanse of marshy ground.

* * *

_Holmes_

The next day dawned with a dreary, dank atmosphere that spoke of coming hours of cold weather and fog. I stood at Watson's bedroom window, staring morbidly out at the cold, damp air – this October had been unseasonably chilly.

But I was chilled in mind as well as body, for all I had been able to think about as the temperature dropped steadily was where Watson could be. Was he out in the elements? Was he still alive? And if so, then where was Stapleton holding him?

It was bitterly cold outside – I sincerely hoped Stapleton had had the humanity to not leave Watson exposed to the elements.

Hah. Humanity, from a man of Stapleton's ilk? The thought made me so angry that the chilly air felt welcome against my throbbing temples. I could not remember the last time I had been so very, very furious.

Furious at Stapleton for what he had done in the past and for getting away with it. Furious with him for whatever he had done (I dared not think too hard about the possible scenarios) to Watson. Furious with Watson for not telling me sooner that he was on to something.

And, most of all, furious with _myself_ for even letting him come down here alone at all – I knew full well the danger, and yet I contented myself with merely watching from afar. What a fool I had been!

I had spent the better part of that awful night devising my plan to catch Stapleton red-handed in a net from which he would never escape. I vowed that, before the day were over, I would have Stapleton in custody for murder and now abduction.

Or else I would see him dead. One or the other.

And if he had harmed Watson, I rather was inclined toward the latter.

My emotions were once again running away with me – helplessness, anger, fear – and my gaze fell once more on Watson's incomplete letter sticking out from under that book on the desk.

He needed me to be thinking clearly. I knew I had to get myself under a firm control to take charge of the day's events.

I could almost hear his doctor's voice, telling me to take a deep breath, to calm down – that I would do no good to anyone if I remained so distraught.

I slowly did so, and my uncontrolled fury and terror slowly melded into a very precise, cold, controlled rage.

Stapleton would pay. And pay dearly, for what he had done. That I vowed on all I held sacred.

I finished my plans for the day and threw myself down on Watson's bed, desperately wishing for sleep, if only to escape the horrible feeling of guilt I was under for letting my dearest friend handle this case on his own.

But my eyes remained open, wide open, as my hyperactive brain was formulating all kinds of dreadful mental images of what Stapleton's cruelty was capable of.

_Hang on, Watson_, I begged silently, staring with troubled eyes at his jacket and revolver that still lay on the bed beside me. _I shall have Stapleton tonight. Sixteen hours, Watson. You only need hang on for sixteen hours.

* * *

Watson_

I nearly cried out as I missed my footing in the darkness and stepped into a patch of quicksand. Stapleton heard my gasp and yanked me roughly back on the path that only he knew the location of.

He had giggled wickedly at the look on my face when he had shoved me toward the Grimpen Mire, knowing that I had thought he was going to kill me right there.

"No, Doctor," he had said, "I have a special purpose for you. I may need you to bargain with, if your dear friend decides he wants to play my game," and I had shuddered at the thought of being a weapon for Stapleton to use against Holmes.

He showed me with a deal of pride where he and his wife – he no longer even pretended she was ought else – had planted a peculiar-looking stiff wand to mark the places where the path zigzagged through the treacherous Mire.

He knew the path in the dark, but I of course was not so knowledgeable. The time of which I speak was the dozenth time I had nearly plunged into the marsh, only to have the man yank me backward with enough force to bring additional sharp flashes of pain to my chafed and bleeding wrists.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to retain my equilibrium, what with my hands still tied behind my back along with the decreasing temperature that made me begin to shake with cold.

_Three days,_ I thought, _I must survive for three days. Holmes shall find me by then, surely. Just three days. Two, if I am lucky._

"We are nearly there, Doctor Watson," Stapleton's eerie voice broke through my thoughts, and I noticed the ground was getting much firmer under my feet – at last. Though I was still terrified deep down over what he might have in store for me, I was at least glad to be facing my enemy on firm land.

We came upon a stretch where the ground evened out, and I could see by the light of the lantern he shone round that there were a few old buildings crumbling into ruins around us. Stapleton was explaining that it was the remains of an old tin mine dating from years long gone by.

Then a sound broke the stillness of the night, the same one that had turned the blood to ice in my veins a few nights previously with its chilling vibrations.

The sound of a hound, howling mournfully in the darkness. But now it was not a ghostly, eerie note as it had been when I first had heard it.

It was real. A real hound's cry.

And it was close – within a few hundred yards.

This was where he kept the hound he was using to fulfill the Baskerville legend.

The Hound of the Baskervilles.

* * *

_Holmes_

With a violent start, I jumped back to reality when the clock in the hall struck eight, my eyes flying open with startlement.

I had actually fallen asleep for a couple hours, thank God. Now it was only fourteen hours until I could rescue Watson.

I would be glad of that nap later on in what promised to be an extremely long day.

I hurriedly shaved and then went downstairs to the dining room, where I found Sir Henry moodily stirring sugar into his coffee cup, waiting for Barrymore to serve breakfast.

"Holmes? What's going on?" he asked, and I could see from the dark circles under his eyes that his sleep had not been much better than mine.

He was genuinely worried about Watson, and I felt a slight twinge of jealousy at the fact that they had become quite good friends in my absence.

How selfish could I be? It was that very absence that made Stapleton feel safe in abducting my Boswell – and he had done it, right under my very nose! I firmly quashed all emotions whatsoever and reverted at once into my collected, investigative compsure.

"I cannot tell you that, Sir Henry. But I need your help if we are to solve this mystery and get Watson back, unharmed."

"I am yours to command," the baronet said, and with a pang I was reminded of how Watson had often used the very phrase accompanied with that excitement that rivaled only my own when on an investigation –

But those were not the thoughts to be dwelling upon. I replied to Baskerville in a voice that I took pride in because of its steadiness.

"I must ask you to give me your word that you shall do exactly as I say, without asking questions," I warned the man, as the butler served our breakfast and then exited quietly.

"I promise," Sir Henry replied earnestly.

I then outlined what I needed him to do – send a note to Stapleton asking if he might call that night, saying he did not want to be alone in this great house all evening, etc., etc., and could he impose upon the man for an night's companionship?

"Very well, Holmes, I shall send it at once," the man replied.

"Then I want you to drive over to Merripit House, send Perkins back here with the trap, and _walk_ back across the moor."

"But, Holmes! That's the very thing you've told me so often _not_ to do!" the baronet cried, thoroughly confused.

"I am aware of it, Sir Henry. But this one time, you _must_ do it," I replied intensely. Indeed, everything depended upon the man's nerve at that point.

"Oh, very well," the man grumbled, pushing his food around on his plate.

My own appetite I knew would not return until I could once again hear Watson's patient voice as he lectured me about my irregular at meals.

I outlined the rest of my plans to the baronet, telling him that I had to return to London this morning due to complications with Scotland Yard and the warrants, but that I would return tomorrow afternoon.

I intended to do nothing of the kind, but it was paramount that the man thought I was doing so.

When questioned by him about why he should go to the Stapletons while I was not even around, I told him I did not want him to spend the evening alone. This seemed to satisfy his curiosity, though it did nothing to allay his uneasiness about the night's events.

Truth be told, I was not easy about them myself. Not in the least.

_Thirteen hours. Please, Watson, hang on._

_

* * *

_

**_To Be Continued - please review!_**


	10. Are Exalted

_**Are Exalted**_

**Disclaimer** - Still own none of them. Even that nasty resurrected Hound.

* * *

_Watson_

_Three days. I only had to survive for three days._

I repeated the mantra for several seconds as the last vestiges of the hound's cry died away on the chilling wind. I shivered, not just from the biting cold, but also from the horrors of what I knew Stapleton was going to take pleasure in making me view.

"Cold, Doctor?" Stapleton's false concern was laced with glee.

"Oh, do get on with it," I said, forcing myself to not allow my teeth to chatter, not in front of the villain anyway.

The man laughed, and the sick giggle again twisted my stomach into a worried knot.

"Come, Doctor," he said, again laughing, and half-pulled, half-dragged me over to the ancient buildings.

There were arranged in a kind of semi-circle around an open space, and the darkness was so complete that I could see nothing.

But I could hear. Deep, snarling breathing, punctuated occasionally by vicious growls. I swallowed hard, not wanting to view the horrid beast.

But Stapleton shone the lantern directly into the shadows of one of the abandoned buildings, and then I saw it.

The largest hound I have ever seen in my life – I would assume reaching to my chest if standing, with paws the size of large dinner plates. Body black as the pit itself, the beast's red eyes gleamed with a ferocity I should not have liked to encounter ever, especially on a dark and cold night with my hands tied behind my back.

"Is he not a beauty, Doctor?" Stapleton asked, pushing me a little closer although I tried to resist.

"Where the devil did you get such a beast, Stapleton?" I gasped, horrified, but my curiosity almost as strong as my fear, "And what in the world is it a cross between?"

"A hound and a mastiff, naturally," the man replied with another wicked little laugh, "And I don't think you really need know its origin, Doctor. But he is a beauty, isn't he? I do hope you two will get along well, because you're going to be spending the night in the same vicinity of each other."

His words hit me like a blast of icy wind, colder than the one now whistling round us physically.

I am no lover of animals of any kind, but I especially dislilke dogs. In the company of Sherlock Holmes I had seen what vicious dogs could do to a man – Jephro Rucastle, for one – and I must confess the prospect of even being near that horrible beast was enough to make me close to terrified.

Stapleton saw my shudder, and it fueled his almost maniacal laughter even more.

And that made me even more frightened.

_Three days._ _Three days in the company of that – thing? Holmes, use your great powers and for the love of heaven please hurry!__

* * *

_

_Holmes_

I stood upon the station platform as the London train came to a halt with a loud screeching of brakes, my eyes eagerly scanning the disembarking passengers for Lestrade and my little friend Cartwright.

The bitter wind blew a particularly icy gust in my direction and I shivered, the motion making Watson's revolver in my pocket bang comfortingly against my side.

How I would love nothing better than to walk into Merripit House and plant a couple bullets into Stapleton's devilish brain.

But I had to wait. The nets had to be fixed so as to catch the great poisonous moth for good. Then I would have him, pinned like one of his own insects, on a card of my making.

The thought brought a small sardonic smile to my face.

Then I saw Cartwright barreling towards me on the platform, followed by an out-of-breath Inspector Lestrade.

"Mr. 'Olmes!"

"Steady, lad. Good work, my boy. Lestrade, how are you – you got my message and Cartwright here told you what has happened?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the ferret-faced man replied, trying to catch his breath.

"Good lad, Cartwright. Your work here is done; now I need you to take the train back to London. I want you safely away from here when the action starts," I admonished the young fellow.

"Aww, blimey, Mr. 'Olmes! Can't I stay an' –"

"No, you may not," I responded, handing the lad a few guineas, "You have been an enormous help, but now I need you to get back to London. Tell Mrs. Hudson all you know, lad, and she will take care of you until I return."

The boy's face lit up at the unusual scale of pay – but he had definitely earned it.

"Now scarper, lad. I shall see you upon my return."

"With the Doctor, Sir?" The boy's innocent question sent a sharp pang through my soul.

"With the Doctor, Cartwright. Now off with you," I replied, praying that it was not an idle promise and that I would be able to keep it.

_Ten hours.

* * *

Watson_

Stapleton pushed me closer to the gigantic hound, just for the cruel enjoyment of seeing my reaction, and the beast growled viciously and then lunged at me!

My startled cry of panic was only more cause for the naturalist's sick amusement as I realized too late that the beast was on a chain stopping several feet short of me, the end of it fastened to a ring in the outside of the hut wall.

This man was bordering on a maniac, I thought desperately, wishing for the hundredth time that night that I had told Holmes of my suspicions when they had first arisen.

"Why, Doctor, I would have expected more nerve out of the man who functions as bodyguard and biographer of the great Sherlock Holmes!" Stapleton said with another twisted smile.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. I could not allow my fear to get the better of my senses. I _would_ not allow it to. Holmes never would have allowed fear to control him, and I would not either. I slowly tried to calm my disquieted nerves and opened my eyes, ready to face Stapleton once again.

_Three days – perhaps two. I had to keep my hope in Sherlock Holmes. He would not fail – he never did.

* * *

Holmes_

Lestrade listened to everything I knew with deep interest, his thin face clouding over when I told of the circumstances surrounding Watson's disappearance.

"Well, for goodness' sake, Mr. Holmes! Why don't we just take this search warrant and tear that bleedin' bug-hunter's house apart?" the man finally gasped in exasperation.

I had to smile, a little sadly, at the man's enthusiasm.

"I doubt Watson's even there, Lestrade. Surely Stapleton would wonder if I might try something of the sort. No, Lestrade. As much as I hate it, we can do nothing now. We must wait until tonight. We simply must."

And how I hated waiting!

I glanced at my pocketwatch.

_Nine hours.

* * *

Watson_

Stapleton had taken a murderous pleasure in forcing me to a sitting position just barely out of reach of that awful hound's chain end, tying my wrists to another ring in the wall of the broken-down hut at my back and then re-securing my ankles tightly.

"You and my canine friend will have a good deal of time to get to know each other, Doctor," the man said, finishing his handiwork and surveying it with a twisted delight, "that is, if you do not freeze to death by morning."

I began to wonder indeed if the temperature were going to drop that low. I might as well not have had an overcoat on, so cold I felt – from the elements or from the gnawing terror I was fighting to control, I did not know which.

The dog was snarling, the hackles on its neck raised, and I hoped desperately that the chain was strong enough to hold the thing. If it snapped, I stood not a prayer for survival. I knew from the Rucastle case that ferocity in animals was usually caused by a lack of regular food.

And somehow I felt this was probably no exception to the rule.

Stapleton gave one more wickedly chilling giggle, lifting the lantern to view the scene before him – I, helpless, trying not to cower in fear as the ferocious animal strained at its chain, glaring with what spirit I could muster at the madman standing over me – and then he left, the sound of his laughter still on the whistling wind, and taking with him the only light I had had.

Leaving me in pitch darkness, the increasingly angry growls and snarls from the massive dog I knew to be just beyond my reach the only sounds I could hear.

And I was growing colder by the minute.

I leaned my head back against the wall of the hut and prayed desperately for Holmes to make it two days instead of three.

Flinching as the dog let out another of those awful howls accompanied by the rattling of a strained chain, I shivered, my teeth beginning to chatter in earnest. I hoped the temperature would not drop any lower that night, or I might not last three days, or even two.

No, I would. Because I still had faith in Sherlock Holmes. He would not fail, and I would not break.

_Three days.

* * *

**Yikes, what a spot to leave off! So sorry, chaps - had to do it, you know!** _

**Thanks for reading - please review and tell me if anybody else hates Stapleton as much as I do? KCS**


	11. Such Is the Tale

_**Such Is the Tale**_

**Disclaimer** - Don't own any of them – wouldn't **want** to own that scoundrelly bug-hunter.

* * *

**A/N: I was going to wait a bit to post - didn't want to spoil you chaps. But so many people are hounding me (no pun intended :) that I decided to be nice and go ahead. Enjoy, people. _KCS_**

* * *

_Watson_

I snapped to attention with a start as that horrid dog let out another long, loud howl, realizing I had apparently dozed off either from sheer exhaustion or from shock. I shivered when I recalled the awful nightmare I had just been a participant in.

But the rude awakening was no worse a situation than that of my dream, I realized, fighting down a growing sense of despair. I could see the sky had begun to faintly grey along the horizon – I must have been unconscious for a few hours at least.

My mind was moving sluggishly, but I was alert enough to know that I was not going to be able to stand three, or even two, days like this without food and some shelter. I was already chilled to the bone, unable to feel my extremities.

And falling asleep like that was the worst thing I could do when that cold and exposed. I struggled to pull myself upright, and the hound across from me, which I could now vaguely see the outline of in the dim light, snarled and lunged at me again.

I caught my breath, but the chain held fast. Breathing a silent prayer of gratefulness, I tried to occupy my mind to prevent my falling asleep again. To pass the time, I began to try and list in order the cases I had been a part of with Holmes, starting with the Study in Scarlet in '81, until the last month, September '87.

I sincerely hoped I could retain enough mental control to survive the rest of the night – surely the daylight would warm things up a bit. I was already starting to develop a nasty cough from being out in the elements for so many hours.

Sir Henry surely should have realized by now that something was wrong. Holmes would receive the news sometime today, and tonight he would be in Dartmoor searching for a solution.

I _would_ survive the next two or three days, or longer if need be. Holmes would come. He always did.

* * *

_Holmes_

I paced nervously up and down the platform of the station – Lestrade had firmly opted to remain inside, out of the biting wind. But my thoughts were dangerously on the verge of running out of control yet again, and I was forced to seek out solitude for a few moments to bring myself back under that calm exterior I always assumed.

I was bitterly cold, but I hardly noticed, so intent was I on keeping my emotions in check.

I had to remain calm, because I could not afford to fail in this trap tonight.

Watson was counting on me, and I could not fail him.

_Eight and one-half hours.

* * *

Watson_

_"Which of you is Holmes?" _

_"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion quietly. _

_"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran." _

_"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat." _

_"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?" _

_"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes._

_"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously. _

_"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion imperturbably. _

_"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler." _

_My friend smiled. _

_"Holmes, the busybody!" _

_His smile broadened. _

_"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!" _

_Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught."_

I laughed a little despite my intense pain, remembering Holmes's first encounter with Grimesby Roylott back in '83. I had been much impressed, as always in those early days, with Holmes's coolness in the face of obvious menace.

My amusement faded when my chuckle turned into another hoarse cough, one that seemed to come from deep within my lungs.

Pray God Holmes would keep a cool head and find out about Stapleton and the man's atrocities despite the man's harmless exterior. Roylott had been a ferocious bear – Stapleton was a treacherous weasel.

The sun had finally started to come over the horizon, a fact for which I was devoutly grateful. Though I could not sense any warmth from its pale light, it was still much better to be able to at least view things, especially that wretched beast a few feet from me, in the light of day.

I realized a few moments later that my thinking was beginning to slow, and I was to the point of not caring whether I dropped off to sleep or not. I was freezing cold, and my numbed brain sent a faint alarm through my senses that I was going into shock from exposure.

But I really, honestly, did not care. If I could escape for a few hours in sleep, what harm was there in it? I would go mad if I had to remain awake for three days straight.

_Three days. It seemed longer by the minute.

* * *

_

"Mr. Holmes! Will you _**please**_ come inside and sit down? You are driving me absolutely out of my mind!" a very frustrated Inspector Lestrade nearly shouted out the door of the station-house at the unresponsive detective's thin figure, pacing up and down nervously, head down against the biting wind.

Scowling at the lack of recognition from the infuriating amateur, Lestrade shook his head in resignation. How much longer had Holmes said it would be before they could take action?

_Eight hours._

_

* * *

_

_Watson_

When I finally, sluggishly, awoke, the sun was directly overhead. I had finally given up the struggle and fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion.

Now, realizing I was becoming increasingly cramped and in a considerable amount of pain, I was glad I had done so, to escape for a few hours at least. I was still chilled to the bone, but the cold, icy glare of the sun gave the illusion at least of some semblance of warmth, though it was struggling to shine through the thick cloud cover.

It must be close to midday. Surely Holmes would have received word by now of my disappearance and would be putting in motion the necessary things that would enable him to leave London and come down to Dartmoor.

Surely he was on his way.

I had to cling to that hope at all costs.

I was rather proud of myself, if the sluggish emotion my frozen mind was conjuring up could be called pride, that I had spent so long in the presence of that hound now lying down across from me and had not yet given in to my fear.

The fiend had its head on its paws, its red eyes wide open, glaring at me, but at least it was no longer snarling or trying to break from its chain, for which I was intensely thankful.

A violent tremor suddenly shook my body, and I gasped as a flash of pain shot through my numbed limbs, the strangled sound turning into another gasping cough.

The pain served to waken my slow brain a little more, and I realized that I was hungry.

Was Stapleton going to keep me here without food or water until he disposed of Sir Henry or until Holmes arrived? Exposure and even lack of food I might be able to survive, but not dehydration. But still, for three days – I believed I could do it. I _would_ do it.

But Sherlock Holmes had better not take much longer than that. Three days.

_No, two and a half now - it was noon . Two and a half._

_

* * *

_

_Holmes_

I nearly shouted with joy when the sun (what little we could see of the thing) finally started to dip toward the horizon. Not much longer now, and I could actually begin to work, not just wait.

Poor Lestrade had been quite out-of-sorts, seeing that I would not give him much by way of explanations this afternoon. I could not – I was too worried.

I am not a fearful man, nor am I of a nervous nature. But I find myself drawing increasingly closer to a frantic state of mind than I ever have been.

Thank God this wait is drawing to a close. I suppose Lestrade is hungry – we probably should find an inn for the purpose of his dinner. I continue to be without appetite.

_Not much longer now, Watson. Five hours, I give you my word. Five hours more.

* * *

Watson_

_"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."_

_"How on earth did you know that?"_

_"Never mind," said he with a smile._

I was jolted abruptly out of my only semi-conscious mental ramblings by that horrid creature near which I was imprisoned lunging to its feet and growling fiercely, its snarling fangs snapping loudly scant inches from my feet where its chain ended.

Startled, and not a little frightened, I wondered what had aggravated the beast – evidently I had either fallen asleep or lost consciousness again, for the sun was setting and dusk was now falling.

I fought to quell the sudden rise of panic at the knowledge that darkness was coming again – I was going to spend another twelve hours in the black of the night with this dreadful dog – and the temperature was dropping again as well. I was not sure if I could make it through another night such as the last.

The dog growled once again, and then broke into that mournful howling that, even after I had been listening to it all day, still grated on my nerves and sent a shiver down my spine.

But a moment later, I saw why the hound had been disturbed. And another chill ran over me, totally unrelated to the icy wind.

Stapleton was returning.

* * *

**_To Be Continued - thanks for reading! Reviews are very welcome and much appreciated!_**


	12. Of the Coming of the Hound

_**Of the Coming of the Hound**_

**Disclaimer** - I hate Stapleton, just for the record, but I don't own him or anybody else!

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**A/N: VHunter07 is threatening to send a hit man after me if I don't update quickly - so call off your dogs, Violet! (again, no pun intended - sheesh, how many canine jokes are there in the world?)**

**_KCS_**

* * *

_Watson_

I closed my eyes, trying to will my teeth to stop chattering and forcing a calm into my face that even Holmes would have been proud of.

Why was Stapleton returning? Why now – at twilight? I had now been in this man's power for over twenty-four hours, and he still filled me with the same amount of fear and dread that I had felt the first time I saw him as the murderer of Sir Charles Baskerville.

Swallowing my terror, I opened my eyes as the man approached.

"Well, Doctor, I am surprised rather to see that you are yet alive," the man said, looking at me with one of those twisted expressions of amusement.

"I do not give up easily, Stapleton," I replied, desperately controlling my emotions – I had to stay calm and not antagonize the man or he might kill me on the spot.

"Still entertaining some hope that your precious friend is on his way to rescue you, Doctor?"

I refused to rise to the man's baited question.

"Just so you know, Doctor, I just was at Baskerville Hall and saw Sir Henry." The man went on, an evil look of triumph coming into his eyes that turned me sick, "And I told him that you had decided to go against my advice out into the Grimpen. He believes you dead. And that is probably the knowledge that he has conveyed to your dear friend Sherlock Holmes."

The man's words hit me as if they were a physical blow.

"You _what_?" I gasped, wishing my voice were not so hoarse, trying to repress the violent cough that had risen in the back of my throat.

"The baronet thinks you are dead, Doctor. And I would assume your friend Sherlock Holmes has received the sad news by now as well. I do know that he has not arrived yet in Dartmoor – I have been watching the station. The last London train came and went an hour ago."

My face must have betrayed my dismay, for the man laughed evilly.

"Came and went, and no Sherlock Holmes. It looks as if you shall have to be my guest for another night at least, Doctor. If you survive for that long."

_Holmes, where in heaven's name are you?_

_

* * *

_

_Holmes_

"Hah!" I exclaimed loudly, seeing the hands on my pocket-watch finally reach seven o'clock. My rather vociferous cry drew several disapproving stares from the restaurant patrons, but I cared naught for that.

_Three hours._

Only three hours. We could begin to act now. I turned to Lestrade, who had been staring at me as if I had taken leave of my senses, and began outlining the night's plan to him.

_Three hours. I am coming, Watson.

* * *

Watson_

My terrible dread and disappointment at learning that Holmes was not yet in Dartmoor and that Sir Henry now thought I was dead chilled me almost more so than I was already. Unless – unless Stapleton were lying to me.

But I could visualize the man telling Sir Henry in his calm, so-very-sorrowful way that I had met my demise upon the moors. Yes, I could definitely see him doing that.

And I had no doubt he had been watching for Holmes. I did not know whether he were lying or not; and at the moment, I was too dazed and ill to really care about trying to decide.

A rasping cough broke from my closed lips, and I noted absently that it seemed to give the man a twisted sense of pleasure.

"Why are you here, Stapleton? Did you come merely to see if I had survived your Hound and your treatment of last night?" I asked, trying to make my voice remain calm.

"No, Doctor," the man said with another of those awful giggles, "I came to fetch my 'pet' here. I am so dreadfully sorry you will not have him to comfort you with his company tonight, but he is needed rather badly elsewhere."

My sluggish brain took a moment to digest what the man had said.

"What?"

"Sir Henry is dining with me tonight, Doctor. I – ahem – want to introduce him to the demon dog of the legend!"

The man's eyes gleamed with a maniacal glee as he went on, drawing pleasure from my horrified stare, "Doused in a thick coating of phosphorous, the fine beast should function nicely as the Hound of the Baskervilles, do you not agree?"

I was horrified at the thought of Sir Henry alone and unprotected – because _I_ was the one who was supposed to be protecting him; this was _my _fault and no one else's – out on the moors, being chased by that hell-hound.

The vision made me shiver, and I could not suppress the motion.

"You are the devil himself, Stapleton," I said in a low voice, helpless to do anything to aid the poor baronet.

"Perhaps, Doctor," the man said rather cheerfully, walking over to his 'pet' and speaking to it in a low voice.

To my complete surprise, the dog quieted somewhat and obediently stood while Stapleton unfastened the chain from the ring in the wall.

I was deathly afraid he would turn the beast loose on me, but after a long laugh at the expression on my face as I tried futilely to shift further away from the dog, Stapleton reined the animal in.

"You see, Doctor, he is quite well trained when I am around," the man said, starting to leave the central hut area with the horrid creature, "It is too bad you will not be able to see his final performance tonight. It will be most magnificent! Good night, Dr. Watson!"

I heard his voice die away on the wind, and I was left absolutely alone.

Shivering, I could do nothing but pray that Sir Henry might somehow escape from the trap set for him by this most dangerous of enemies.

By the time Holmes reached Dartmoor, it would probably be too late for the baronet. And it was my fault – I was supposed to be with him at all times and never let him go out on the moor in the dark.

It looked as if the powers of evil were really going to be exalted this night, and I could do nothing to stop them.

_Holmes, where are you?

* * *

Holmes_

"Blast!" I muttered, as the temperature plummeted rapidly once darkness fell. It was beginning to look as thought a bank of fog were about to roll in.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade queried after my exclamation.

"Hope and pray for all you're worth, Lestrade, that this fog holds off – it is the only thing in the _world_ that could wreck my plans!" I hissed, peering again over the rocks at the tiny light shining in the distant window of Merripit House.

The Yarder and I were waiting a good bit away from the house in a rocky crag, waiting quite impatiently for Sir Henry to leave the place.

"I didn't tell him to stay all night!" I growled, trying to curb my impatience.

Now that the time was actually upon us, I was growing very, very nervous.

What if something went wrong?

What if I had calculated wrong, and Stapleton was not going to take the opportunity to loose the Hound on the baronet?

What if he did not fall for my story, corroborated by Sir Henry, that I had had to return to London?

What if the Hound made it past me in the darkness, and I did not kill it in time?

What if Stapleton succeeded in his murderous plans?

What if he had already done away with Watson and I was going to have to arrest the villain for a double murder, not a single?

I gasped out loud with the horror of what I had just thought.

No. I would not give up hope. Surely Stapleton would have kept Watson alive in case he needed leverage for me. Surely.

I sternly pushed all thoughts of the kind to the very furthermost reaches of my formidable brain. I would find Watson.

And I would do so by tracking Stapleton after we had disposed of the Hound.

It all had to be done so, so carefully. And so quickly. As soon as the dog was dead, I vowed, I would lose no time in bringing its master to heel.

_Not much longer, Watson. I give you my word. I am coming.

* * *

Watson_

Another deep cough from my tortured lungs was the only sound I had heard in the last two hours. Darkness had fallen, so deep and so complete that I could not even see my bound ankles directly in front of me.

A violent tremor shook my body once more – I would be lucky to escape from this adventure with no more than a case of bronchitis. Thank God it had not started to rain – if it had, then I would have been dangerously ill by this point.

As it was, I attempted to keep my mind alert by categorizing my symptoms - just a bad cough and cold, perhaps a fever at this point – it was hard to tell if I was cold from the air or from the latter.

I spent several moments praying that the rain would indeed hold off. The cloud cover did not seem to bode well for that; and I knew if it were to start, I would indeed be violently ill before morning.

As I began to drift in and out of consciousness, fighting to remain awake, I wondered where Holmes was if he had indeed not arrived yet to Dartmoor.

Had he really not arrived yet? Had Stapleton told me the truth? And if he _had_ arrived, then was he aware of Stapleton's intents against Sir Henry? Would my friend even find me in time?

Firmly I once more shoved my fear and mounting despair to the back of my mind.

Holmes would come. I knew he would - I just did not know when.

But as another shiver racked my frozen body, I fervently hoped it would be soon.

* * *

**_To Be Continued - thanks for reading! As always, reviews would be greatly appreciated!_**


	13. Which Is Said to Have Plagued the Family

_**Which Is Said to Have Plagued the Family**_

**Disclaimer** - still don't, don't, don't own them!

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**A/N: Yipe! Please don't shoot! I'm posting, I'm posting!**

**And _for the record_, I dare say I'm better at said posting that all you lovely readers who've been sending me death threats! Love you all! ;)**

**_KCS_**

* * *

_Watson_

I was struggling desperately to stay awake, knowing that hypothermia was making me drowsy (and the lack of sleep was not a help), and the only thing that kept my rapidly slowing mind on the edge of alertness was the thought of what was happening out on the moor.

I silently begged Sir Henry to be wary of the butterfly-hunter – otherwise he would not live the night.

For that matter, I was not sure I would myself.

_Holmes, you must hurry!

* * *

Holmes_

I cursed under my breath as I saw what time it was. Half-past ten. It had been dark now for over two hours – what in the world were Baskerville and Stapleton possibly talking about for so long?

"Mr. Holmes, if that fog gets thick, we could be in trouble," the Scotland Yarder whispered, eyeing the thin mist that was beginning to swirl around the path to Merripit House.

It had not yet turned to fog, but it would in another hour or two.

Would that man hurry up? Every moment that went by was another that Watson spent only heaven knew where! Why would the baronet not just go back to the Hall!

We were running out of time – I could feel it. We were very rapidly running out of time.

My frustrated thoughts were suddenly broken by the flashing of a light in the house – the front door was opening!

With a devout prayer of gratefulness, I crouched down beside Lestrade and cocked Watson's revolver, holding it in readiness.

The official followed my example, and less than a minute later we heard the rapidly walking footsteps of the baronet pass our hiding place.

Then I peered over the rocks and braced myself for the dog.

But when it appeared, I stood riveted to the spot, a sudden terrifying disbelief paralyzing my overwrought senses.

The hound, if it _was_ a hound, was larger than any beast I had ever seen – but it was not that which so startled me. It was glowing, with a weird, unearthly, shimmering flare, and flames were pouring out of its open, dripping jowls.

_It was_ **really** _a demon hell-hound, like the legend said?_

My mind registered a feeble protest that there had to be a logical explanation to the apparition, but not in enough time for me to act upon the thought.

By the time I swallowed hard and got a grip on my nerve again, the – thing – had passed our hiding place and was bounding after the baronet in long leaps.

Whirling about, my faculties in control once more, I sighted and fired twice after the retreating form.

And in the next instant, my fear dissipated. The dog howled in sudden pain.

If I could wound it, it was mortal. And if it was mortal, I could kill it.

Without looking to see if Lestrade was following, I sprinted as fast as I could go up the path after the creature – its ghostly glow made it easy enough to track in the mist.

Ahead of me, I heard Sir Henry's terrified scream, and as I finally caught up with the dog it was just scant inches from the baronet.

I saw the beast jump on the petrified American and knock him to the ground – then I took steady aim and emptied three more shots from Watson's revolver into its glowing flank. With a mournful whining howl, the horrible creature shuddered and fell on its side to the ground, dead at last.

The baronet had fainted from the shock, and it took both Lestrade's and my combined efforts to revive him and calm him down, assuring him that the legend was dead, once and for all.

I had to admire the man, for even after realizing I had endangered his life, he still tried to thank me for saving it.

But to be dreadfully and brutally honest, his was not the life that was on my mind at that moment.

"I am dreadfully sorry, Sir Henry," I said, a wave of shamed remorse sweeping over me at last, "I was prepared for a hound – but – not this! Please - do forgive me."

As the man shakily assured me he would, we all three stared at the ghastly creature. Then Lestrade helped the baronet to his feet while I bent over the still body, formidable even in death.

"Phosphorus," I said, showing the other two my gloved fingers, which now glowed from where I had touched the beast, "he painted it with phosphorus."

"Mr. Holmes," Baskerville gasped, "Who? Who are you saying is behind this?"

"Lestrade, take care of Sir Henry and explain matters," I said, realizing Stapleton would have heard the shots, "I've got to stop the villain before he gets to Watson."

Without another word, I turned and raced back toward the house, praying I would not be too late to catch the man before he could harm Watson in retribution for my destroying his scheme.

We were indeed running out of time.

* * *

_Watson_

I had entertained some vague hope that the moon might be able to break through the clouds – and to my surprise and odd delight it managed the feat at intervals. Little more than a glow from behind a screen of mist, but at least it was a light of some sort.

I wondered if I ever again would take for granted the common phenomenon known as light.

Or that of a warm fire, for that matter.

As another deep cough shook my pained and aching limbs, I thought wistfully of our cozy hearth back in Baker Street. A roaring fire, one of Mrs. Hudson's good meals, and a brand-new client to keep Holmes from boredom – the elements for a perfect evening.

But the chilled air that surrounded me was painful enough a reminder that I might never see those blessed sights again. Even through my distorted semi-consciousness, I knew that I probably would not be able to survive another night like the last.

Was Holmes really going to come? For the first time, I doubted. Was he?

* * *

_Holmes_

I burst into Merripit House with a cold, calculated fury that might have been better off waiting for Lestrade's assistance – I had only one bullet left in Watson's gun – but I was not thinking of anything other than locating my dearest friend.

Or of finding Stapleton and forcing him to tell me where he was.

Merripit House was still and quiet, and I searched the whole ground floor without finding anything. Not even a trace of the man's wife.

That worried me as well – had he killed her, too?

Lestrade and the baronet, who was looking a little better now that the shock had started to wear off - I was so _very_ proud of the man's nerve that night -, came dashing up to the house as I finished, and together we started to ransack the upstairs.

I was fighting down a bad attack of panic as we searched and searched without finding any sign of the Stapletons, when Lestrade yelled down the corridor that he could hear noises from a locked room.

I kicked the lock on the door and it snapped. Then we rushed into the room, pistols drawn, prepared for anything.

I was horrified to see a figure in the midst of the room tied to a support beam – but it was not Watson, it was Mrs. Stapleton.

I felt genuinely sorry for the baronet, as I knew the realization that the woman he had fallen in love with was Stapleton's wife had dealt him a hard blow. But he had no words of reproach for the ill-treated woman as we gently released her. Indeed, she had been a very unwilling component in the deception.

The lady was very badly injured – I saw anew what villainy Stapleton was capable of, and it turned my stomach.

I was forced to wait impatiently while the lady revived enough to talk to us, but as soon as I thought she was lucid, I was about to ask her where her husband was when she spoke frantically.

"The hound?" she gasped.

"Is dead," I said tersely.

She leaned back on the couch with a shudder of relief.

"Thank God!" she whispered fervently. Then, her beautiful eyes, now filled with pain, turned toward me.

"You must hurry, Mr. Holmes," she sat up once more, speaking with deep urgency.

"Where has he gone, Mrs. Stapleton?" I barked curtly, the fear within my heart growing stronger with each minute that passed.

"The Grimpen Mire," she replied instantly, "he has the Doctor in the old tin mine, in the heart of the Mire. Where he kept the Hound!"

I turned immediately and started to leave the room.

"Wait!" the woman cried after me, "you will never be able to find your way in the dark!"

"Then I shall die trying!"

"The wands, Mr. Holmes," the woman whispered, "we planted wands to show the path through the quicksand. Follow them, or you will never stand a chance."

"He's not got much of one anyway," I heard Lestrade mutter as he walked over to join me, " 'specially with that scoundrel having a head start on us."

"I must have a lantern," I stated imperatively, and the woman told me where to locate one.

I told Lestrade to remain behind, but he refused, saying I needed someone with me in case I fell into the quicksand.

I was amazed at the Yarder's loyalty, considering the enormous amount of jibing he gets from me on a regular basis. But he absolutely insisted upon going with me and I had not the time to argue with him, and so we left Sir Henry to take care of Mrs. Stapleton, which he immediately agreed to do, although a bit sadly.

I had no time for more preliminaries, and I set off at a dead run for the edge of the Mire the woman directed us to, hoping to close the gap between myself and Stapleton before he reached Watson.

That quicksand was deadly, especially in the dark, when it would be difficult to see the guiding wands. I might never make it to the heart of the marsh.

But I would die trying, at any rate.

* * *

**_To Be Continued...please review!_**


	14. So Sorely Ever Since

_**So Sorely Ever Since**_

**Disclaimer** - I own nothing; get on with the fic.

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_Watson_

I shivered as the moon went behind another cloud bank, again plunging my dreadful prison into absolute darkness. I was very definitely freezing to death by degrees – I knew I would not last the night if I fell asleep again.

In a last-ditch attempt to remain alert, I put aside all thoughts of my present plight and what was no doubt happening out on the moors tonight, and instead began to plot out the next case I wanted to write up in story form.

Holmes did not know yet how deep my interest in writing went, and I had, to date, compiled a goodly assortment of our cases written out in longhand, in a kind of short-story form. I had been looking forward to making this Baskerville one into a more lengthy work like the one I had entitled a 'Study in Scarlet.'

But it was beginning to look as if I were not going to have that chance, after all, I reflected, as another coughing fit shook my exhausted frame. I winced at the pain, but it was more of a dulled sense than previously – proof that I was truly becoming numb with cold and exposure.

But once again I firmly pushed the deep despair I was beginning to feel aside and resolutely went back to the more pressing problem of staying awake.

It was becoming more and more difficult to do.

* * *

_Holmes_

I devoutly hope I shall never, ever have to make such a dangerous trek as that one across the great Grimpen Mire ever again in my lifetime.

The place was fearful indeed, the stench of rotting vegetation filling the chilly air, taking one's breath away, and the absolute panic one felt at each wrong step into the quagmire was nerve-wracking to say the least.

If I had not had Watson on my mind the entire time, I should have given the idea up in despair.

As it was, I was devoutly glad more than once to have Lestrade with me – many times my missteps in the quicksand would have cost me my life had he not been there to pull me out of the Mire.

It was indeed, a fearful place. But I knew that I had no more time to spare. I had to hurry – Watson's life now depended upon me, and upon me alone.

I had to hurry.

* * *

_Watson_

I was growing drowsy, so very drowsy, and I knew I was once again fighting a losing battle to stay awake. I had categorized all the cases I could remember from the day I met Holmes in '81 til now. I had planned out the next three stories I intended to write up and come up with rather good titles for each.

But I was now running out of things that would occupy my mind. Proof of how cold I really was, was evidenced in the fact that I could no longer feel any pain in my limbs. I could feel nothing, actually, and I was absently rather glad.

But still I continued to fight, knowing that I could not give up, not now. It would only be one more day, and then surely Holmes would have realized what was going on. He would find me – I had only to hold on for another day.

But my mind was fast shutting down, overruling my heart and my hope, and I was growing sleepier by the minute, lulled by my numbness into a false sense of security - or apathy, I did not know which. Nor did I really care.

It was with a start that I heard sounds behind me. Because of the way in which I was tied to the ring in the hut wall, I could barely move, and I could not see what the sounds were until the man – for it was he who was making them – stepped out into the clearing, brandishing a lantern.

My mind was so sluggish that I barely registered that it was Stapleton until he had been standing there for several seconds.

* * *

_Holmes_

"Mr. Holmes!"

At Lestrade's panicked cry I turned and grabbed the inspector, hauling him roughly out of a patch of quicksand - he had taken a wrong step and slipped into the morass.

Breathing heavily, he thanked me, and we both looked at each other, swallowing with difficulty. We had been at this for nearly an hour.

"We must be nearly there," he said breathlessly, indicating another guiding wand.

I could indeed feel the ground growing slightly more stable under my feet. But we were not out of the Mire yet. I resolutely stepped out once more, again testing the ground with my foot before placing all my weight upon it.

_Hold on, Watson. I am almost there, old chap._

_

* * *

_

_Watson_

When my numbed brain registered that it was Stapleton standing before me, I instantly became more alert with a cold chill that sent shivers down my spine.

The violent coughing that again disrupted my focus brought some pain back to my body and woke me up even more.

Stapleton – alone? Where was the Hound? And why was the man back here?

It could only mean one thing, I realized, even with my tired mind. It meant that the Hound was dead.

Someone had killed the Hound of the Baskervilles.

And judging from the fierce look of hatred and rage on Stapleton's face, my deductions were correct.

"Your Hound's f-final performance really w-was his last, was it, Stapleton?" my hoarse voice through chattering teeth sounded strange, even to myself, so used had I gotten to absolute silence for the past thirty-six hours.

Stapleton's features were twisted with fury, and he glared down at me with undisguised hate.

"That fool, Sherlock Holmes!" he screamed, and I could see that the man's sanity was in grave doubt at the moment.

Holmes? Here? Then Stapleton _had_ been lying! Holmes _was_ here – he had killed the Hound, and he was here somewhere around the moor! He had saved Sir Henry from the fiend - now surely he was searching for me!

The elation on my face threw the villain into an even more violent rage, and he snarled at me like that awful dog he had kept in this spot for so long.

"Yes, Doctor, Holmes is really here – but he probably has fallen into the Mire by now! Beryl no doubt told him where I had gone; and if I know him, the fool probably tried to make it through the swamp to rescue his dear friend. And we both know, Doctor, that the morass is impenetrable to anyone but me!" The man's glee was taking on an undoubtedly mad tone now as he spat the words out with venom.

I realized the truth in what he said, and the dreadful thought must have showed on my face, for Stapleton gave one of those menacing little laughs and continued.

"Yes, Doctor, he died in a pathetic effort to save you. Isn't that a nice load of guilt to carry with you into the next life?"

I swallowed with difficulty, the naturalist's words cutting me deeply. It was true – I had failed Holmes by not being watchful; I had allowed myself to be captured, and now Holmes would perish in that dreadful quagmire because he was trying to make it through to me.

And if he were indeed dead because of my failures, I had no wish to continue this miserable existence.

Since my first remark I had said no more, not wanting Stapleton to get any satisfaction from hearing the rasping croak that was now my voice, uttered through my violently chattering teeth.

And even now, I thought miserably, silence was a better choice, because the man was obviously near-demented with rage that his plans should have been overthrown by Sherlock Holmes.

As Stapleton launched into a violently furious tirade, I shuddered to think of what the next few moments would hold for me.

But if I were responsible for Sherlock Holmes's death in an valiant effort to save me, then suddenly whatever Stapleton was planning did not seem so dreadful by comparison with that guilt.

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**_To Be Concluded, at last! Please review!_**


	15. When the Powers of Evil Are Exalted

_**When the Powers of Evil Are Exalted**_

**Disclaimer** - Like anybody's reading this at this point – they all want the last chapter of the story! Here we go!

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**A/N: This really was long enough for two chapters, but I figured if I split it that people would freak once again - so here it is, the whole long thing! Enjoy!**

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_Watson_

Stapleton's raging torrent of words was falling on deaf ears, for I was too cold and sick to even care about anything any more. I knew that the apathy in itself was an indication that my condition was growing dangerous, but the thought did not worry me as much as it should have, due to my weakened condition.

The madman's furious words were a mere blurred sense of annoying background noise to me, so little did I care about anything at that moment in time.

But when the moon came out once more from behind a cloud bank, I could see the rage and madness on his face, and it frightened me. I forced myself back toward lucidity, dimly aware that I might have to fight for my life in the next few moments.

That thought was abruptly justified when in the midst of his foul curses he picked up the heavy chain that had been used to restrain the Hound and started toward me, swinging it toward my face!

I braced myself for the blow, helplessly unable to move even an inch the way Stapleton had me secured, when suddenly I heard a noise that changed everything, filling me with a wild hope I had thought never to feel again.

_"Stapleton! Touch him, and I shall kill you, I swear it!"_

That cold, imperious voice so ringing with authority and anger across the flat space was filled with a hatred rivaling Stapleton's own.

Holmes - he had come, after all!

* * *

_Holmes_

We had finally made it to flat, hard ground, after that deadful hour of fighting through the marsh. My elation at making it thus far, alive, was short-lived as I saw the danger-signals of a lantern-light in the midst of the circle of buildings.

I dashed for the nearest gap between them, Lestrade puffing at my heels, and stopped short, horrified, upon seeing Stapleton standing menacingly over the helpless figure of my dearest friend.

The man was cursing and swearing with a violence that gave doubts as to his sanity, and I became even more terrified when saw him pick up a length of chain from the ground and start toward Watson with it.

My fury at the naturalist, who was so brave only if he had a helpless captive in his possession – he would run from direct confrontation like the coward he truly was – suddenly and violently annihilated the last vestiges of control I had.

"Stapleton! Touch him, and I shall kill you, I swear!" I shouted, my anger infusing so much menace into the words that it almost startled me.

By the light of the moon and the lanterns, I could see it had startled Stapleton as well.

And it had frightened him.

Good. Very, very good.

* * *

_Watson_

I saw Stapleton turn away from me to look at the newcomers – I could not see them from my sitting position, but I would know that one voice anywhere, even through the semi-conscious haze my fogged brain was fighting its way through at the moment.

And that voice was angry – so very, very angry. I had only heard that kind of cold rage perhaps once before from my friend, and it boded ill for the man at whom it was directed.

Stapleton took up a position in front and to the side of me, blocking me from Holmes's view, and directed his tirade at him instead of me.

"Holmes, you fool! Even if you made it this far through the Mire, there is no possible way you can make it back!" he screamed with glee. "You shall die here, all three of you!"

"Are you armed, Stapleton?" Holmes's odd question puzzled my muddled consciousness.

"No, Holmes! And you cannot shoot an unarmed man and justify it, not with a Scotland Yard Inspector standing there at your back!" Stapleton shot back with a maniacal laugh.

I heard a violent curse from Holmes, and then the lethargy I was in seemed to snap finally. I was sick, cold, hungry, and completely fed up with the melodrama.

My legs were mostly numb, but not so much as to be immobile; and so I kicked the naturalist, quite hard, in the back of the knees.

They buckled and Stapleton dropped the chain he had been holding as he fell.

And in the instant he dropped the coward's weapon he held, Holmes lunged for him.

I had a blurred vision of the undisguised rage on my friend's countenance before he hauled Stapleton to his feet and landed such a fierce right-cross to the butterfly-hunter's face I was certain Holmes had broken his nose and perhaps a few teeth.

Stapleton whined like a kicked puppy and launched a valiant but useless defense against the furious detective.

Lestrade had circled round the two combatants and was now kneeling next to me.

"Doctor, are you hurt?" he asked, beginning to gingerly try to undo the rope that held me to the ring in the wall.

"N-not seriously, Lestrade," I said hoarsely amid another deep cough, wishing my teeth would stop that confounded chattering – the motion was jarring my aching head.

Lestrade had me free of the ring and was trying to saw through the rope around my hands with his pocketknife.

It was probably a good thing that I was nearly numb all over, since the rope had bit into my wrists so deeply that they had bled. As it was, I only felt a dull stinging as the cords finally fell away, and I could move my arms for the first time in a day and a half.

Then, then the pain that hit me was sufficient to heighten my dulled senses up to their highest possible extremity in that condition, and I could not repress a gasp as my cramped arm and shoulder muscles began to slowly respond to the sluggish movement.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Lestrade apologized, untying the rope around my ankles.

"It-it's all right, Lestrade, th-thank you," I said hoarsely, stifling that painful cough that threatened to shake my tortured body once again.

My attention was arrested by the terrible beating Holmes was giving Stapleton, and I immediately recognized that the detective was completely out of control.

"Lestrade," I gasped.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Please, g-get out there and stop Holmes - before he does something foolish," I whispered, knowing that in his anger Holmes's great physical strength was perfectly capable of killing a man in cold blood.

Lestrade nodded understandingly, but I thought I heard him mutter something to the effect of it being Stapleton's just deserts. I was not certain, however, that he had said so, and the inspector did get to his feet to interrupt the fight.

But as he did so, Stapleton wriggled out of Holmes's iron grip somehow and took off at a dead panicked run for the moor, not caring where he went other than to get away from the angry investigator - and completely forgetting about the treacherous Mire.

A moment later, the three of us heard his screams as he called for help – he had fallen into the quicksand a few yards away.

"Holmes? Please! Please help me!" The man's begging was pathetic, and his tortured cries of agony as the Mire slowly, inexorably, took hold of him still ring yet in my nightmares.

Lestrade took a step forward, but Holmes grabbed him firmly. The two men looked at each other, and then they just stood there, listening to the naturalist's cries, not moving an inch to aid him - I did not know if they _could_ reach him and did not, or if they could _not_ reach him and did not bother to try.

And it was not long before the villain's dreadful screams died away altogether, leaving us with a dead silence broken only by my labored breathing.

The realization that Stapleton was finally dead hit me with a wave of relief, and I slumped backward against the wall of the hut and closed my eyes, trying to get a grip on myself.

The whole wretched ordeal was over, at last.

"Watson? Watson! Can you hear me?" Holmes's frantic voice broke through my semi-conscious state a moment later.

I opened my eyes and somehow managed a shaky smile at his pale, worried face.

"Holmes, I-I knew you would come," I whispered, trying to make my voice sound steady, since his was obviously not going to.

At my words, conveying the hope and trust that had been my anchor throughout the horrors I had endured the last day and a half, Sherlock Holmes's eyes suddenly filled with what I thought were tears - but I could not be sure in the dim light, and my own eyes were watering from the bitter wind anyhow.

In an instant he had his Inverness off and was wrapping it around me, despite my feeble protests about his catching cold. The welcome warmth did more to help me in bringing me back to full consciousness than even the knowledge of the fact that Stapleton was out of our lives, for good now.

"Watson, I am so, so sorry," Holmes whispered finally, as he sat there beside me on the cold ground, holding the warm coat closed around me.

"Wh-whatever for?" I asked.

"For underestimating the man. I very nearly did not make it here in time, and –"

I had to interrupt – my senses were returning slowly and I knew in a moment the returning feeling and subsequent pain in my limbs would negate conversation, on my end at least.

"No, Holmes, I am to blame, b-because I did not t-tell you my suspicions the instant they occurred," I said, shivering violently as the feeling began to return slightly to my body, and suddenly realizing how cold I really was. Before I had only been chilled – now I was freezing.

Or perhaps the danger of that apathy I had been feeling was passing and I was just returning to my normal senses again.

"Watson?"

"I'm f-fine, Holmes, just c-cold," I replied to his worried question.

Just then the feeling started to return to my extremities, and I was hard put to not cry out as the sensation of a thousand needles pricking into my hands and feet began to assail my senses.

I flinched, and my choked cry of pain at the muscle spasms turned into an extremely embarrassing whimper that I was heartily ashamed of, but Holmes's firm arm around my trembling shoulders told me more than his gentle, reassuring words that everything was all right.

Within a quarter of an hour, I could once more feel my arms and legs, and the sensation was, although still dully painful, a very welcome one.

"Do you think you can stand, Watson?" Holmes asked, his worried grey eyes looking at my face sharply to deduce my condition for himself.

"I would l-love t-to try, Holmes," I replied a little ruefully – it would be rather nice to be upright again after thirty hours of that cramped position.

Lestrade hovered nervously around us as Holmes helped me – or rather pulled me, for I was nearly a dead weight – to my unsteady feet, watching to see that I did not fall.

But I would have, had Holmes not caught me in time.

"Steady now, old chap," he murmured, holding me upright until enough feeling returned to my legs that I could stand without wobbling; by that time I was breathing heavily with my efforts.

The sensation of at last standing upright sent a glimmer of pride into my face, and Holmes's proud countenance mirrored my own. I could feel his supporting arms were starting to shake with the cold, now exposed to the biting wind, and I tried to get him to take back his Inverness.

Which he of course refused adamantly to do.

"Do you think you are up to trekking back across that Mire, Watson? I would suggest staying here until we have daylight, but I am afraid you need more warmth than that coat is going to give you," Holmes said, his forehead creasing with deep worry at the sound of my wracking cough.

"I want to go home," I replied quietly, shivering once again as my gaze fell upon the place where Stapleton had kept the Hound.

"I shall lead, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade volunteered, appropriating both the lantern Holmes had brought and Stapleton's, "and test the path for you and the Doctor."

My feeble protests were overruled by the courageous little official, and after Holmes had assisted me in trying to walk about a bit to un-cramp my legs, we started out across that horrid morass.

It was a dreadful, dangerous walk, compounded by the fact that I was extremely shaky and slowed Holmes and Lestrade down considerably. More than once my knees buckled from the weakness I was growing increasingly ashamed of, and Holmes was forced to halt and sustain nearly all my weight until I could go on again. Time after time I did not think I was capable of taking another step, so great was my exhaustion from the efforts.

But his quiet words of encouragement, whispered over the course of that hour-long expedition across the treacherous Grimpen Mire, were the most wonderful sounds I had heard in over a month, since this horrid business first began - and indeed, they were the only things that kept me from giving up the struggle to remain on my feet.

When we at last reached the safety of the firm ground of the moor, past the final guiding wand, the relief that washed over me nearly made me go limp – frightening Sherlock Holmes half to death when I finally collapsed into his arms, the energy from my adrenaline at being rescued completely leaving me and my exhaustion taking firm control.

In the midst of my trying to calm his attack of panic as he gently put me on the ground, we heard the sound of a small trap and horse approaching, and an instant later the tall figure of the baronet jumped down from the seat of the vehicle.

"Holmes!" he called; then, upon seeing me, his honest face was wreathed in smiles. "Watson! You're all right!"

"Yes, Sir Henry," I said, my voice now a mere hoarse croak, looking up at the man and noting his pale, drawn face – what horrors had he witnessed tonight? – "I am glad to see the Hound did not reach you."

"Beryl is resting comfortably now, Mr. Holmes, and I thought you might need some help, so I left Perkins to watch her and came right straight out onto the moor – good thing I saw your lantern, too, 'cause I had no idea where to go," the baronet said.

"Well done, indeed, Sir Henry," my friend said quietly, "Your nerve has stood you in excellent stead tonight. Now, Watson, let us get you into that trap."

I protested when I realized that it was only large enough for one man besides the driver – I did not want either Holmes, Lestrade, or the still-shaken baronet to have to walk all the way back to Baskerville Hall in the bitter wind.

But all three men overruled my weakened remonstrances, and Sir Henry unceremoniously shoved Holmes up into the driver's seat despite his more vigorous protests.

"Sir Henry, you have had a bad shock tonight as well, and you should not be out on the moor like this!" he cried as the baronet pushed the reins into his hands.

"I'm going back to see to Beryl, Mr. Holmes," the man said, "I'll see you both back at the Hall. Besides, I guess the Doctor needs you more than he needs me right this minute. Now go on!"

"I shall go back with Sir Henry, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade added to the man's words, "I need to get an official statement, anyhow, you know. Have no worries about us."

My mind seemed to be shutting down at last, for I vaguely remember trying to make a mental note to myself to thank both the baronet and Lestrade for their care when I must have drifted finally into unconsciousness.

The last thing I recall was Holmes whipping up the horse and racing across the moor for Baskerville Hall.

* * *

_Holmes_

When I finally reached the Hall – it was difficult to find the obscured path in the dark – Watson was unconscious. Barrymore and I managed to get him to his room, and I was about to send the maid for Dr. Mortimer when the man himself showed up at the door.

It appeared that Sir Henry had summoned him to Merripit House to care for Beryl Stapleton, and the baronet had ordered him to go straight to the Hall as soon as the lady was out of danger.

Again I marveled at this American's nerve and sound common sense.

Mortimer told me after examining Watson that he was suffering from shock and exposure as well as from the lack of food and water for the last day and a half. He also had a very bad cough and probably would need to stay inside for several days to avoid it turning into pneumonia.

The man cleaned and bandaged my friend's wrists where the rope had bitten deeply into them and gave me instructions on Watson's care. For his sake, I tried my best to listen, though it was growing difficult for me to focus with Watson's labored breathing as he lay unconscious sounding in my ears as a direct reminder of my incompetence in this case.

Now that the whole nasty business was over, I was feeling the effects of the last day and a half – no sleep, little food, and extreme fear and worry were threatening to now overcome even my iron will.

Mortimer noticed this and ordered me to get something warm to drink, saying he would send Barrymore up with it. I mechanically thanked him for his attentions and then pulled up a chair beside Watson's bed to wait.

How I hated waiting!

I noticed that Watson was still shivering slightly, obviously still chilled from the horrors he had gone through. I went to the next bedroom down the hall and grabbed several blankets.

Upon my return, I found that Barrymore had left a hot toddy on the bedside table for me, and after spreading several of the blankets over Watson's sleeping form, I was grateful to have the warm liquid, as I watched with relief Watson's unconscious trembling finally cease.

Settling back in my chair to watch my friend, my mind went back to Stapleton.

In my uncontrolled rage, I might very well have killed the man with my bare hands – I had never even thought about doing so to anyone before. Never in my life had I felt such fury – cold, calculating, murderous fury – and it frightened me not a little.

I am not given to emotional demonstrations of any kind, but in this case for the first time I felt a deep abiding anger and fear that I had never felt before. The fact disturbed me very much. As did my innate satisfaction at the villain's slow and agonizing demise in the Mire he so loved.

Poetic justice, I thought.

But I could do nothing now but sit and watch to see that Watson did not start running a fever, trying to push my unusually disturbing thoughts from my head. They were fuel for another day's discussion, not tonight's.

Tonight, my job was keep watch over my dear Watson.

* * *

_Watson_

When I awoke, my first sensation was the very welcome one of great warmth – something I had wondered if I should ever feel again. Upon opening my eyes, I found myself in my own bedroom at the Hall, feeling quite warm and comfortable for the first time in quite a long time, outside the fact that I was a little hungry.

I could see by the sunlight - it had emerged at long last - slanting through the window that it was afternoon. I had slept for quite a long time.

Then the horrid events of the previous night came back to me, and I remembered with a shudder everything up until Sir Henry had met us upon the moor with a trap and horse.

A very small sighing sound fell upon my ears, and I turned my head to look at its source. A smile curved my lips as I saw what it was.

Sherlock Holmes had fallen fast asleep in a chair beside my bed, his feet stretched out in front of him and his chin upon his chest.

He had been there all night and all morning, watching over me.

I was glad to see him sleeping, for I could deduce by the dark circles under his closed eyes that he could not have had much more rest in the last few days than I.

I still was puzzled as to how he could have gotten to the moor so quickly, and how he had thwarted Stapleton so rapidly. How had he come to even know of the business when he did, and what were the details of the killing of the Hound?

But those questions could wait. I was content to simply be warm and safe for the time being, in the care of my dearest friend - asleep though he was at the moment.

I softly raised myself from my position on the bed, noticing that someone had bandaged my painful wrists, and picked up one of the five or six blankets the over-eager detective had put over me while I slept. Leaning over, I gently laid it on top of Holmes's soundly sleeping form. He never even slightly moved - obviously he was completely exhausted.

And then I lay back and closed my eyes to return to my own comfortable sleep, content in the knowledge that together, we had at last triumphed over the dark powers of evil at work upon the moor.

* * *

_**Ta-da! Just the epilogue left! Please review and tell me if you wanted Stapleton to live or not!**_


	16. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

**Disclaimer** - _Voila_! The final chapter – I still own nothing, unfortunately.

* * *

I settled back into my comfortable armchair with a sigh of satisfaction, the combination of a blazing fire in the hearth and a glass of port after one of Mrs. Hudson's good meals enough to put me in an most excellent frame of mind. 

As Holmes sat in his familiar chair across from me, he too looked happy to be back in Baker Street once more – we had arrived only that afternoon to find Mrs. Hudson and the boy Cartwright ready to greet us effusively.

Holmes had shooed the poor woman out of the sitting room a few minutes ago, insisting that I needed peace and quiet – but truth be told, Holmes's incessant fussing was becoming almost as smothering as our worthy landlady's had been.

As if to prove my point, when I coughed slightly as the smoke from his pipe drifted my way, he started and looked at me with a worried gaze.

"Holmes, for heaven's sake," I remonstrated, "I am perfectly fine now. There is no need for you to have a panic attack every time I clear my throat!"

My over-exaggeration of the way he had been carefully behaving as if I were made of glass and would break easily seemed to relax us both, and Holmes ruefully smiled at me.

Indeed, in the week we had spent at Baskerville Hall after the horrible events that had taken place there, I had made a most amazing recovery with the aid of Holmes's care; and the only indications now of our misadventures were the light bandages that remained on my wrists, half-hidden by my shirt-cuffs, and a slight cough once in a while if the weather were particularly vile.

I glanced up as the clock struck ten.

"Well, Sir Henry is probably on his way to the ship by now," I remarked, thinking of the baronet in whose company I had spent the last month.

After the traumatic events that had taken place, Sir Henry was rather weary of his estate there in Dartmoor and Dr. Mortimer and I both had prescribed him to take a prolonged holiday traveling abroad while the modern improvements he had planned were being made to the Hall.

Indeed, the poor American's nerves were still rather shaky over the whole affair. Learning that the woman he had fallen in love with – indeed, I firmly believed he still loved Beryl Stapleton – was in reality the villain's wife had been a cruel blow.

But the fact that the woman had only aided her husband out of pure fear and terror – witness what he had done to her that last night – and that she firmly refused that night to be a part of the actual plot to kill Sir Henry had done much to ease the pain of betrayal in the man's mind.

_"I still love her, Watson," he had said as we stood in the drawing room of Baskerville Hall this morning, saying our goodbyes, "Do you think perhaps –"_

_"Perhaps, Sir Henry," I said with a smile, "after your voyage. Come back in nine months or a year, and yes, I do believe that perhaps, you might. But not now."_

_"No, of course not," the baronet had said thoughtfully, his honest face lighting up with a smile at my words._

_I could indeed tell by the way both parties acted, that there was a good strong possibility that the past might become buried in the past so deeply, buried under the mud and mire of the great Grimpen that Stapleton had so loved, that they might move on with their lives, free from the dread influence that had made Beryl Stapleton's married life a veritable hell on earth._

"Watson?" Holmes's voice broke into my reverie.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"What are you thinking about, dear chap? You have such a dreadfully studious look on your face."

"You mean to tell me that this time you cannot read my thoughts from my features, Holmes?" I asked, teasing him unmercifully, realizing just how much I had missed moments like these over the past month.

He laughed, muttering something about being 'somewhat out of practice', and merely went back to smoking his pipe, his eyes twinkling at me mischievously over its curved stem.

"I was remembering what Sir Henry said just before we left this morning, Holmes," I explained.

"Ah. Do you think he shall suffer any lasting damage from the ill effects of the shock he has been through?" Holmes asked, voicing again his concern for the baronet.

"I do not believe so, Holmes. He is quite a spirited young man."

"Yes, indeed. It is rather a pity about his falling in love with the villain's wife."

"Hmm. I should reserve judgment upon that point until Sir Henry returns from his trip abroad," I remarked, looking absently into the fire.

"Watson, you don't really mean that you think –"

"Holmes," I said lightly, "just take my word on it, you would _not_ understand."

He snorted in a rather undignified fashion, and then smirked at me.

"Your department, then?"

"My department, Holmes."

"I must concede to your superior perception in that case," he replied, grinning at me. Then his tone changed, and became more philosophical.

"Love is a strange thing, Watson," Holmes went on, rising and walking over to the window to gaze out upon the city we had not seen in so long, "a mystery even I for one would never try to solve. That a man could still want to marry the wife of the fellow who tried to kill him is something I should never be able to comprehend."

"Perhaps," I replied. "But then again, one might remain similarly mystified about a chap who would spend an hour in risking his life, fighting through three acres of deadly quicksand, for the sole purpose of rescuing a friend."

I suddenly found my port glass very interesting, staring at it rather awkwardly, wondering where in the world _that_ melodramatic sentiment had come from in my mind.

Sherlock Holmes was silent for a moment, and then he came back and reseated himself in his chair, cross-legged as of old.

"Again, I concede to your superior perception, my dear Watson," was his only comment, accompanied by a quirky smile that did more to warm me than either the port or the fire.

It was definitely good to be home.

* * *

**_Finis! Thank you for reading - and reviewing too!_**

**_KCS_**


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